


The Clarissa Black Effect

by KCWebb



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-12 20:20:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 34
Words: 95,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3353987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KCWebb/pseuds/KCWebb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Clarissa Black, Sirius Black's sister and my own creation, enters J.K. Rowling’s storyline after Book 3, The PRISONER OF AZKABAN. Clarissa sees the action through to a much swifter conclusion than the original. Fans will recognize that my revision necessitates a discrepancy in Harry’s age. At the start of Book 4 of the Rowling series he is fourteen--but as I am smashing the last four books into a new ending, I chose his age to be sixteen with deliberate forethought.</p><p>Thanks are due to the encouraging readers of early drafts of Clarissa: my dear friend Karen; my husband; and my writing professor, C.W.</p><p>For W.F., the one I continue to dream.</p><p>--K.C. Webb<br/>February 14, 2015</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Clarissa Black, Sirius Black's sister and my own creation, enters J.K. Rowling’s storyline after Book 3, The PRISONER OF AZKABAN. Clarissa sees the action through to a much swifter conclusion than the original. Fans will recognize that my revision necessitates a discrepancy in Harry’s age. At the start of Book 4 of the Rowling series he is fourteen--but as I am smashing the last four books into a new ending, I chose his age to be sixteen with deliberate forethought.
> 
> Thanks are due to the encouraging readers of early drafts of Clarissa: my dear friend Karen; my husband; and my writing professor, C.W.
> 
> For W.F., the one I continue to dream.
> 
> \--K.C. Webb  
> February 14, 2015

_August_

 

Albus Dumbledore sat looking calm, pleased, and curious all at once. The letter from the Ministry Office of Internal Affairs lay open on his lap, though the words had already dissolved in the way of confidential memos. His hand moved slowly upward, open-palmed, following the movement of smoke.

So the rumors back then were true. Lucius had been intimately involved with an intern in his office, Clarissa Black. And she, fresh out of Hogwarts, practically a kid. Oh, Clarissa Black could take care of herself, no doubt. Even then, even before the hard lessons of Azkaban. But Dumbledore felt a pang of swift pity and sorrow for the wide-eyed, athletic girl who had been one of his favourite students. Her photograph on the front page of _The Daily Prophet_ alongside the story of her Ministry pardon refreshed his appreciation of her straightforward, genuine manner, though the woman pictured had definitely aged. “The years become her,” he thought. The photograph was all shades of grey, but he vividly recalled her dark eyes of sapphire blue.

“Now, I understand, Lucius has reason to be gravely worried about his misstep,” Dumbledore said slowly, shifting in his high-backed plush wing chair. Fawkes the Phoenix twittered contentedly above his master, plumage gently fanning the air.

 

Severus Snape fidgeted in his firm leather chair, his mind wandering from the article in _New Victorian Potions Master Quarterly_. Dumbledore was actually serious! He wanted to hire that snotty little sister of Sirius Black for Binns’s position. The smart-mouthed, flippant creature who worked years ago, with rather dire results, as Lucius Malfoy’s assistant. He recalled that morning’s _Daily Prophet_ photograph of Clarissa Black looking directly into the camera. The story outlined how, due to her youth at the time, Ms. Black had been officially pardoned by the Ministry for her participation in her brother’s crimes. A wave of heat spread up Snape’s neck. His mouth twitched slightly.

A mental image of the deranged Sirius Black, recalled from widespread news coverage of his escape from prison with his sister nine months ago, brought a half-smile to Snape’s face.

“Just what . . . is dear old Albus up to . . . ” he said aloud, slowly and gravely, to no one at all. The dungeon office, sitting room and adjoining bedroom were devoid of human presence other than brief glimmers of a smiling, portraited Lily Evans Potter on the end table beside him.

He sipped his favourite sweet red vermouth and returned to his article on traditional versus new befuddling potions . . . but found himself recalling a Potions lesson from his own early years at Hogwarts. Professor Slughorn was droning on as usual. . . . Severus had found himself startled as his seat became warmly wet.  Sirius Black and James Potter had put a ridiculously childish Pantswetter Spell on him. Pale yellow, sharp-smelling liquid flooded over the chair as giggles erupted around him. Of course, he knew how to remove the spell with an urgently whispered “ _Reversio_ ,” but not before the damage was done. As urine splashed audibly to the floor under him, Lily Evans, his lab partner, had looked down, horrified, and then--she had laughed. The old pain settled into his chest like a stone. With a sigh, Severus Snape set the magazine on the table and stared into the dungeon space.

 

Clarissa Black sat hunched over the kitchen table at 12 Grimmauld Place next to a bottle of whisky, a generously poured glass of amber liquid in hand. She stared at the far wall remembering the message from Dumbledore, delivered by Grey Owl earlier that day: _Position available. Professor of History of Magic, as Binns has finally decided to retire. Would love for you to apply, dear. Includes Ravenclaw Head of House. Sorry it can’t be your own Gryffindor, but Minerva McGonagall remains firmly competent in her position._

This seems awfully easy, she mused. Maybe I should talk to Sirius first?--Would he wonder about Dumbledore’s motives? Only days earlier, Sirius had asked her to contact Dumbledore to find any possible opening at Hogwarts. The school posed a security problem. Severus Snape was known to the Phoenix Order as a double agent in their service; he maintained Death Eater status in order to keep Dumbledore supplied with inside information. Or so Snape claimed. She thumbed the thick file labeled simply SS as she shifted her compact frame on the hard wooden seat.

“Use your feminine wiles, darling,” Sirius had quipped at her from the mirror, their preferred method of off-site communication. Her brother, still a fugitive, was holed up in a cave not far from Hogwarts. “Charm Sir Albus into letting you lead the Quidditch Team or something. Offer your tremendous mind in the service of our dear old school as devoted repayment for your Hogwartian education. You were his favourite, after all, weren’t you? Just get in there, by hook or by crook, so you can figure out what’s really going on with Snape.”

Clarissa had joked that she hardly thought her feminine wiles would have any measurable effect on Albus Dumbledore. And though she didn’t reveal any self-doubt to her brother, she felt just about as unsure of her ability to handle a teaching position. Only eight months ago she had lain for days on end in a converted Bulgarian monastery, incapable of holding a conversation. Yet, she had readily acquiesced to her brother’s cheerful fortitude and agreed to the assignment.  I’m ready for this, she told herself. Sirius thinks so.

“Slimy Snivellus is not with our lot, I’m convinced. Yet Dumbledore gives him practically free rein over Harry.”

“It is a puzzle, I agree. Known Death Eater turned Potions Professor. And as far as his teaching skills go, he sounds beyond dreadful. But do we have any new evidence about Snape’s allegiance? Let’s be sure we’re not running on old emotions here.”

“Well, not exactly evidence. There’s a lot of suggestive--But you know all that. Mainly, his fingerprints are all over Voldemort’s knowledge of the July Prophecy.” Sirius’s voice had been icy. “The latest intelligence from the Order suggests that Voldemort is getting stronger. Word is he is reorganizing.”

Clarissa had whistled in response to this grim piece of information, and said goodbye.

She downed the Scotch. Well, big brother, she thought to herself with amazement, wait till you find out who is Hogwarts’ next History of Magic teacher. She looked at the newspaper lying next to the Snape file. That hard-faced woman. I hardly know myself, she mused, and poured another half a drink. She flipped open the SS file and the photo of Snape stared out at her, unblinking. The flat black eyes transmitted a creepy coldness; the face was all hard angles of jaw, browbone, and beak-like nose. A face that housed . . . cruelty, she felt sure.

 

A night later, Clarissa’s tawny owl scratched at the cave floor where Sirius spent most nights. By day, in the form of his animagus, a giant, shaggy black dog, he could be anywhere: wandering Hogsmeade, or London, or occasionally, the very grounds of Hogwarts school. Sirius took from the owl a letter confirming that Dumbledore had accepted Clarissa’s credentials and offered her a teaching position. Not only would his sister be at the school; she would have daily contact with both Harry and Snape, and would have legitimate reason to advocate for Harry’s safety and well-being. Harry had just turned sixteen that summer. His last year before coming of age was a critical period in the eyes of the Order.

Perfect, he thought, sipping the family whisky and settling himself more deeply into the threadbare brown divan. But how in bloody hell do things like this just fall into her lap? He tossed the previous day’s newspaper aside, but Clarissa’s serene face still gazed across the grimy couch at him. He felt a pang of mixed guilt and admiration towards his younger sibling. He wanted to believe that she had emerged from Azkaban hardy enough, after a rest. Outwardly, at least, she was unscathed. But then she had disappeared for months, to Troyan Monastery in the Bulgarian countryside where she had studied before prison. She had told him she needed time to “gather herself.” Whenever he had tried to contact her, he was kept at arm’s length by Nymphadora Tonks, a cousin who had gone with her. Shifting uncomfortably, sipping his Scotch, he realized he would never really know what Azkaban had been like for Clarissa. Certainly, he himself was mostly out of his mind by the time she arrived; she had kept him going with her strong presence as a Legilimens. That’s life, isn’t it? he thought. Tag teaming our mental energy in the fight against evil. We are never all whole at the same time, that’s the problem.

The Clarissa he had come to know once she returned to live at 12 Grimmauld Place the past summer was more focused, more contemplative than the boisterous young woman who entered prison at age 25 for aiding and abetting him in the murders done by Peter Pettigrew. He smiled thinking how she would relish academic life. A teaching position at Hogwarts was certainly a stroke of luck for a former prisoner, even one with an official Ministry pardon.

“Damn it,” he muttered. “You owe her everything.  Be bloody happy for her.”

He drained the glass of whisky. As he slammed it down on the wooden crate which functioned as a table, the dull clunk reverberated through the cave.

 

Minerva McGonagall tucked the plush velour blanket under her bottom and sipped her tea slowly. She involuntarily shook her head back and forth and made a soft tittering sound with her tongue. She stroked the grey striped cat on the plump purple sofa cushion next to her.

“Poor girl, poor young girl,” she said with sorrow. “Pity the thought of Clarissa Black in that horrible place!” Minerva shuddered, her thick Scottish brogue all the more pronounced in her distress. “But Azkaban did not break her! No, no, it did not!” The previous day’s news story lay on the coffee table before her; in the photo, Minerva thought Clarissa looked defiant, victorious--though older, certainly. She recalled the petite but powerful Clarissa streaking across the Quidditch arena. “No wonder she held the attentions of so many of our young men--and no doubt, some of the young women, too,” Minerva chuckled, then knit her brow. The image vaguely reminded her of some unpleasant business. . . . What was it? Something involving Lucius Malfoy. A tawdry Ministry scandal . . .  

“It is kind indeed for Albus to offer her a position here. It will be a lovely way for her to rehabilitate, to get back with people. A woman with her grit will be a wonderful example for our girls!” The cat purred affectionately as Minerva vigorously rubbed its neck.  Minerva still looked troubled and tried to remember the exact story about Clarissa and Lucius.

 

Nymphadora Tonks clattered into the foyer of 12 Grimmauld Place, doors slamming shut behind her, humming bits of a melody she had heard while at dinner with Remus Lupin. She could see the kitchen lights were on. “’Rissa?” she sang out.

“She’s been at the bottle, ’Dora. Been passed out there a good while,” barked Kreacher, the family house elf, from his den under the stairs.

“Oh, dear girl,” she said, finding Clarissa slumped over the table. Tonks corked the whisky bottle, picked up the empty glass and set it on the counter. She began to prod Clarissa awake when she saw a letter lying by her cousin’s outstretched hand. Hogwarts School letterhead. A teaching contract.

Well, that would certainly be a change of pace, thought Tonks. I wonder if she’s ready for working life?

Tonks gently shook her cousin by the shoulders.

“Come on now, ’Rissa. Up you go, then!”

Clarissa whined in sleepy protest but arose, gingerly. Tonks supported her cousin up the stairs and into bed.

 

Lucius Malfoy was propped with fur-covered pillows in the firelit bedroom. He flicked his wand at the giant painting on the wall facing the bed, changing the picture to his evening Botticelli, _Mars and Venus_. Next to him, Narcissa Malfoy flipped glossy pages in _Womanly Witch Weekly_.

“What is it, darling?” she murmured up at him.

“Nothing, dear,” he said hastily. His mind, however, kept seeing yesterday’s _Daily Prophet_ photo of the grey-clad Clarissa Black looking into him. Of course, he had done everything in his powers to keep the newspaper from his wife. He recalled that Clarissa’s formerly long blond hair was now in shorter, darker, thicker waves around her broad face, a pronounced grey streak accenting her high forehead. The eyes, which seemed both accusing and sad, were unmistakably Clarissa’s. A heavy sensation filled his chest. Turning to gaze at the elegantly groomed woman draped alongside him, Lucius reached for his wine. He drained the glass of ruby red liquid.

Narcissa reached up absently from her magazine to stroke her husband’s cheek.

Lucius Malfoy set the glass down, sighed, and closed his eyes.

 

Harry Potter read with great interest that Sirius Black’s younger sister had recently been pardoned for the Pettigrew murders. Of course, Harry knew of Clarissa Black: her photographs in the Hogwarts’ Quidditch Hall of Fame had caught his eye on any number of occasions as he was on his way to practice. She was a star Gryffindor Seeker in her day; her stats had been equalled by just one or two Seekers since. Not to mention, she was quite attractive. Her compactly curvy figure aboard a broom was unmistakable, blond ponytail streaking behind or swirling about her head. . . . Harry was sure he was not the only player whose gaze lingered on those photographs and dreamed of things beyond besting Clarissa’s averages in Seeking.

He studied the latest photograph of her which accompanied the news story about the pardon. She looks . . . so different now, he thought. She was certainly still nice looking. But the mass of dense curly hair around her head, wildly askew, was no longer blond. A white -streaked lock rose out of the middle of her forehead, like a lightning bolt. Harry unconsciously touched the scar on his forehead. This woman’s gaze was serene. He liked the way she looked directly into the camera, rebellious. That defiance about the jaw, and the deep intelligence of her eyes--these features reminded him of Sirius. Otherwise, there was little in her appearance to suggest the lankily built, shaggy-headed man he had recently come to know as his Godfather.

Now he was quite startled to see Sirius’s face appear in the living area mirror of his Gryffindor suite amid the tumult of guitar and drum noise. His Godfather’s eyes were shiny; was he . . . weaving a bit where he stood? Sober, his Godfather would not risk appearing to Harry unannounced, for fear of being seen by other students. Sirius’s jollity seemed a tad forced as he announced to Harry that he would soon be getting to know a new member of the Black family.

“Harry, m’boy, she’s the besta the lot! Clarisser is my kid sister, and she’s twice as smart as your old Godfather! And ten--no, maybe only five--well, two!--times better looking!” Sirius’s laughter was nearly drowned out by the roar of drums and shouted lyrics thundering around the cave.

“That’s--that’s really cool,” Harry managed to stammer. “Your sister! So she’s kind of like my . . . aunt, I guess?” A member of Sirius’s family, at Hogwarts.

“And if you are taking Advanced History of Magic this year, she’ll be your teacher. She’s bright, like I said. Eastern European Mysticism is her specialty. Lived out there for a time.”

“Great. Wow, great! Thanks for letting me know.”

“Got to run, Harry. Be good! Talk again soon!”

“Right,” Harry said, thinking, You always say _Talk again soon_. But it’s usually nothing like soon.

 

Minister Fudge stirred restlessly in his armchair and stopped humming an accompaniment to a German piano sonata--which had, until a few minutes ago, soothed his sagging spirits. The _Daily Prophet_ photo of Clarissa Black glared up at him from the coffee table. Next to it lay an internal memo announcing that Ms. Black was the latest hire at Hogwarts.

“Damn it,” he thought, and the music stopped abruptly. “What the devil is Dumbledore up to now?”

Against the jarring silence of the room he flicked the sound back on. He lifted a tiny crystal goblet and gulped the pale sherry.

 

Severus Snape sat up in bed and flicked the light on. He rummaged vaguely for something to read and pulled the _Daily Prophet_ from the bedside table before flinging it onto the bed in irritation.

“Not her again,” he fumed, as the days-old photo of Clarissa Black jarred him with that fawning, open stare. He reached for the _NVPMQ_ journal he had been attempting to get through all week and snapped it open again to the article on befuddling potions. His mind roamed uncomfortably. He found himself recounting a distinct memory of Sirius, a seventh year like himself, walking by him in the hallway with Clarissa, on her first day at the school. Sirius had paused as he passed Snape standing in the corridor.

“That, dear little sis, is a Slimy Snivellus. The worst kind of vermin. Dumbledore fumigates the whole castle once a year to kill them off, but this one keeps lurking.” Sirius had glared foully at Snape.

Clarissa--a gangly, wide-faced girl with a long blond braid down her back--had stopped to peer up at him. She had stared, and then had walked off with her brother, giggling.

Now he reached for the newspaper photo of Clarissa and puzzled over that face, pictured in black and white. This woman wrapped in coarse grey cloth, recently pardoned by the Ministry following her escape from Azkaban, was that same petite girl with Sirius some twenty years ago. Remarkable, how the violet eyes he called up in his mind altered the picture significantly.

 

Several floors above Snape’s dungeon, Dumbledore stood at the open window gazing out at the moonlit night. “Ah, yes,” he said, stroking the Phoenix’s brilliant tail. “I agree, dear Fawkes. This girl--well, woman, now, surely--may be just what the place needs.”

He turned out the bedroom light with a wave of his hand and lay still in the downy bed.


	2. Kaleidoscope

Climbing the final steps to the wide castle courtyard, Clarissa was flush with the effort of pulling her wheeled trunk behind her. She paused to breathe deeply and take in the view.

“It’s just fantastic!” she said to herself, gazing around at the dark green hillsides and wide view over the expanse of Black Lake. She laughed, remembering that in school she had liked to fantasize that the lake was named for her family. But no. Just a big dark body of water. In the summer sunlight, the lake shimmered and rippled like a fair omen.

The message sent earlier with the packing list and faculty handbook had directed her to the main floor of the academic wing, office of Minerva McGonagall. Clarissa left her trunk in the spacious hallway and tapped firmly on the doorframe of the room where a stately, thin-faced woman with steel grey hair and kind, violet eyes was writing at a desk.

“Ms. McGonagall?”

“Ooh, yes! Clarissa, dear! I see you have found your way to us! How was the train? Were the children dreadfully loud?”

Clarissa laughed but shook her head. “The train was lovely. I enjoy the kids and their crazy noise, to be honest.”

Minerva’s eyes danced in quick approval. “Well, then, you will likely enjoy being back here at Hogwarts. The castle fairly bursts with their energy all the time. I think it keeps the teachers young. Let me show you to your quarters and then to your classroom.”

 

Minerva swept Clarissa through the wide halls and up a giant staircase. “This is the Ravenclaw Wing, of course, and you will be staying in the Head of House suite.”

Clarissa was delighted at the elegant, spacious rooms. The sitting area had a large window looking out over green hillsides.

Clarissa straightened up and stretched her arms over her head. “I love it. What a change from . . . Well. It’s wonderful. Thank you.”

“Next, we’ll see the classrooms. This way,” said the older woman in a sing-song voice, and they descended the stairs and walked back to the academic wing which appeared mostly deserted. A pair of dark-robed adults--faculty, Clarissa guessed--wandered by and nodded at Minerva and the new hire. Clarissa looked sideways at the tall, thin woman striding briskly beside her. She recalled Professor McGonagall as one of her strictest, toughest teachers; Clarissa had sensed as a student that Professor McGonagall disapproved of her. “Well, I was not the hardest of workers in her class, that’s for sure,” she thought. Yet now she seemed to treat Clarissa with genuine fondness.

“Most students will of course be in their rooms or outside getting reacquainted, prior to the start of classes Wednesday,” Minerva stated crisply. “Ah! Professor Snape!”

A tall, black-robed man had appeared so suddenly in the corridor that Clarissa had to stifle an exclamation of surprise. The pale, hard-edged face framed by the unkempt black hair of her file photograph loomed next to her.

“Professor McGonagall,” the hovering face issued in a smooth, slow baritone.

“Yes! Mr. Snape! I would like to introduce you to a former student of mine. Clarissa Black, Severus Snape.” Minerva McGonagall looked Clarissa squarely in the eye. “But I guess maybe the two of you have met before, as you were students here at nearly the same time?”

Snape blinked once.

“Now, she’s a new member of our faculty! Ms. Black will--”

“Be filling Professor Binns’s position this fall; I have heard. Indeed, the whole Wizarding World seems to be aware of your latest--er, exploitation of Dumbledore’s goodwill, Miss Black.”

Snape gave a sideways nod and short bow that seemed mockingly formal. The deep voice resonated in the air, dripping sarcasm. He did not meet Clarissa’s gaze but rather looked into the space just above and beyond her head.

Clarissa extended her hand to him, drawing the dull focus of his flat black eyes. “A pleasure, Severus Snape. I remember you well from my first year. You were, I believe, in the same class as my brother Sirius?”

Snape took her hand briefly and gave a faint backward motion with his head. His lips were a tight line.

Minerva pressed on. “Well, Mr. Snape. We will be moving to the classrooms. See you at the Opening  Faculty Luncheon!”

Again Snape bowed slightly and moved briskly down the corridor, long robes swishing rhythmically behind him.

Minerva took Clarissa by the hand and turned up a narrow staircase to the right. “You know, he takes a while to warm up to people. But I’m sure . . . Let’s see. Here is your classroom!” Minerva’s voice rose higher. “Room three-hundred eighteen. Really, what a delightful view of the campus!”

Minerva’s voice tittered on, liltingly describing the many assets of the classroom’s northern exposure, view to the lake and greenhouse complex, etc., etc. Clarissa found her own attention flagging and realized she was exhausted. She felt the sudden need to pause, retreat.

“Thank you, Minerva! This room is perfect; it’s all . . . so lovely. I think . . . if it’s alright I will take a walk before the luncheon.”

Minerva patted her hand understandingly. “Of course, dear. With all you have had to take in, it must be a bit overwhelming.”

 

Harry Potter joined his friends at the lunch table following the traditional new faculty introductions just before the elder group went off to Dumbledore’s quarters for their private affair.

“Did you _see_ her, Harry? The new history teacher! Blimey,” Ron sputtered, mouth barely keeping in mashed potatoes. “ _Finally_ , Dumbledore is hiring some really worthy types to teach us a thing”--bite, chomp--“or two!”--swallow. “She’s one little spitfire, she is! Maybe I _will_ add history this year, after all.”

Hermione Granger fumed. “‘Types,’ Ron? Clarissa Black is an acclaimed historical scholar--and a champion Quidditch player--not a toy for your visual amusement!”

Ron continued stuffing potatoes into the giant grin plastered on his face.

Hermione turned to Harry. “What do you think about it? Did Sirius tell you she was coming here?”

Her friend spoke rapidly. “I did hear from him! He was very excited to tell me.” Harry smiled around at them, brightly.

“That’s great, Harry,” said Hermione with cheer.

 

Clarissa Black lay sleeping at the center of her queen-sized bed. Her dreams were anything but peaceful.  Dark shapes permeated her mind.

 _Sirius--bloody hell! Stay with me, Sirius! Don’t let them in! Hang on to me, Sirius!_ But she could not find her brother’s thread in the cloud of dark shapes. Then inky black coldness began to pour up through her torso and leak into her brain. She felt her heart stop as her legs were being spread apart and she was being forced open, torn in every direction. She tried to breathe but could not. Her gut filled with air that froze her from inside out. Every inch of her felt invaded with the cold. She felt her legs splintering. . . .

Clarissa jerked bolt upright, panting. It took her a half minute to figure out where she was.

“Oh, god. Oh, god. Oh, god. It’s okay, it’s okay. Just--just--dreaming again,” she said aloud, stroking the smooth sheets and downy pillows surrounding her. She lay back, touched her legs and hugged her belly. Warm to the touch, not frozen out with dementor breath. Breathe. Breathe. She looked around the moonlit room assured to find herself amidst elegant furnishings. A wide coffee table and small sofa were visible through the open bedroom doorway. Her racing heartbeats slowed as she breathed deeply. She realized she had started crying as she tried to identify a strange sound like an animal whining nearby.

Giles’s ghost, that’s me. She wiped her face hastily, and cried out, “Bloody hell. Same shit as always. Damn _fucking_ dementors.” She wiped her face again. “God. God. God, it sucks!” Short, terrified gasps escaped her as her breath slowly became more even.

She settled back on pillows now damp with sweat as her mind roamed over the day so full of light and life, like the scrubbed young faces she had started to memorize, along with names. She recalled sitting in the Faculty Luncheon being introduced to the other staff members by Albus Dumbledore, feeling a bit like a local celebrity.  Dumbledore sure does it right. So genteel. And the food! Brightly coloured fruits, pastries, savory dishes baked with noodles and cheeses . . . The kaleidoscope of sights, sounds, and smells of her first day swirled crazily in her mind, crashing against the ashy grey memories of the cold cell she had inhabited for five years.

From sunless Azkaban--and trying to keep my brother alive, and sane--to this place! She marvelled at the texture of the silky bedcover between her fingers and laughed grimly. She knew the math all too well, that her brother’s twelve years in prison were more than anyone could expect to survive. Thank god I was there, or he’d be . . . She wiped perspiration off her forehead with one arm and shivered. She thought about calling on Sirius through the Ravenclaw Suite foyer mirror. Well, maybe not. It is the middle of the night, after all. Why bother him?

An image of Snape flashed into her mind. He had been seated next to Dumbledore today, and across from her, avoiding her gaze, it seemed.  He made small talk with several nearby faculty members, including Charity Burbage, Professor of Muggle Studies. She herself had enjoyed chatting with the well-spoken woman, about ten or twelve years older than herself, she guessed. Sweet, smart lady. Good sense of humor. She saw Snape again, picking at fruit on his plate but eating little. What a cold fish. So hard to figure Dumbledore’s loyalty there. She found herself shaking her head. Sirius is right. It just doesn’t make any sense to keep a Death Eater so close.

She also recalled the _very_ attractive visiting Defence of the Dark Arts teacher, and fellow Ravenclaw, Nathan or Nathaniel Something Easterly, who had been seated down the table and across from her. He had made eye contact off and on throughout the luncheon. Was it Nathan William? Wilhelm? Really? N.W. Easterly, can that be right? She had to smile at the idea of a Dark Arts teacher with a vaguely comical name like North West Easterly. Who looked a lot like a young Cary Grant.  

Of course, during the meet-and-greet dessert with Board members, Lucius had been insufferable. He had given her a cool once-over, head back, nose in the air. If he put his head back any farther he would have fallen backwards. She had shown great restraint not to spit right in his face; instead she had merely returned a steady stare right into his haughty, cold eyes. I know what you did to me, she had meant to convey. I know it was you and your posh, insecure wife. You are the reason I spent five years fending off the fucking dementors.

Clarissa turned on the light. Her eyes rested a moment on the elegant crystal decanter that had been provided her as part of her suite’s elegant furnishings. Filling it with a bottle of whisky had been a first task as she unpacked. Right. One small drink should do about now. Calm the nerves. Got to get up, be ready to teach the kiddies in just a few more hours.

As she sipped she pulled the SS file up from the lower shelf of the bedside table. What is it that’s bothering you about this man’s face? she wondered. Cruel-looking, yes. An image of him at lunch today chatting with Madame Hooch the Quidditch Coach (Lord, what a dinosaur, that one! The helmet hairdo hadn’t budged a centimeter in twenty years, just got greyer). Snape. A distinctly unappealing person. Slimy black hair, clammy-looking skin, chilly gaze. But . . . as she studied the photograph, she knew there was more to him. Hard angles, yes. Cold eyes, yes. Still hadn’t blinked, though she had stared at the photo for a full minute. His mouth twitched ever so slightly. What was it about him that she did not know how to name?

“He’s . . . _scared_ of something,” she said aloud, pleased to have labelled it. “Extremely wary.” She downed the pour of Scotch and turned out the light.

  
In the next tower over and several levels above Clarissa’s room, Fawkes twittered softly to his master. Dumbledore nodded, and worried. “She is worse off than I knew, dear Fawkes.”  


	3. Cousin Clarissa

“Good morning!” Clarissa Black stood at the front of the room, smiling at the group of students making their way into seats. Every chair was occupied; some tables had three students crammed next to each other. Clarissa felt a wave of excitement, her face and neck flushed pink, she felt sure. All those young eyes, waiting. “Here goes,” she thought to herself, as she launched her First Day Speech, subtitled “Aren’t-we-going-to-learn-slash-discover-slash-explore-a-lot-together!”

Several minutes in, a tall, pale-haired boy sauntered into the room, looking around casually. She recognized the face and build. “Has to be!” she thought.

“‘Allo, Cousin Clarissa,” the boy said, smiling disarmingly. “I’m Draco. Draco Malfoy. I believe you have . . . _known_ my father? Rather well, I heard.” He looked around the room to be sure his peers were paying attention.

Clarissa felt the surge of blood brightly flushing her throat and cheeks, but she kept her gaze steadily fixed on this drawling, sneering young version of Lucius.

“Why, Draco, what a pleasure to meet you. Is that an add slip in your hand?”

“Of course. I heard such marvellous things about you, Miss Black, I had to sign on for Advanced History of Magic.” He looked around the room, pleased with himself. “I just added this morning. In spite of it being--er, filled.” He looked across the table at her with such feigned innocence that she almost laughed aloud.

“Well, sir, take a seat. As I was saying, class . . .”

 

At lunch, Clarissa welcomed a few moments alone in her office with a cup of steaming tea. It had been a long time since she had felt this sense of being drained and energized at the same time. The ancient monastery in Bulgaria where she had studied--the place was no longer an operating monastery but more like a combined college and retreat center--had been intensely pleasurable mental work in the years prior to her imprisonment, minus the interactive element that came with the classroom. Remembering today’s ice breaker activity and group reading, both of which had gone far better than she had expected, she realized with some surprise how much she enjoyed this work. Then again, she hadn’t had any real idea _what_ to imagine. Of course, there had been some uncomfortable moments thrown in for good measure, like Draco’s ridiculous arrogance.

“Right sodding wanker, flouncing in like he bloody owns the place! I wonder how much his dear old dad _has_ told him?” She felt a wave of disgust. But the nastiness of her affair with Lucius Malfoy, while a distinctly unpleasant memory, paled in comparison to recent trials of dementors and her sunless, cold cell. Lucius was little more than an annoying reminder of youthful indiscretion. A mistake.

“A small man,” she thought, draining the tea. “Well. On to the next class.”

 

“What about it, Granger? I think the new History teacher responded rather well to my smooth _entry_ into her class!” Draco thrust his hip forward and sneered at his own vulgarism. “Did you see how she glowed when I told her who I was?”

“Draco, you are positively sick. Ms. Black’s class is going to be no picnic for you, you know.” Hermione readied her notebook for the moment Professor Snape started lecturing.

Luna Lovegood, a Ravenclaw with large blue eyes and long blond hair, nodded. “Draco, you will find out she’s not what you think.” Her high voice was wispy; her simple words carried the wise air of pronouncement.

Harry looked uncomfortable as Ron took Draco’s bait. “You’re crazy, Malfoy! She was hardly eager to have you in. Think she wants to have 31 essays to grade, instead of 30? And you are no advanced historian, mate. How the hell did you get into the class, anyway? It was full! They told me _yesterday_ I couldn’t get in!”

“Bloody hell, Weasley. Imagine, not getting in, with your connections.”

“Draco, I will see you in my office . . . after class.” Professor Snape’s appearance next to them was so sudden that all five jumped in their seats. “Now, if we could begin?”

Draco, looking vaguely ill, fumbled with his notebook.

 

“Yes. Professor, you wanted to see me?” Draco Malfoy had sidled to the blackboard at the front of the room where Severus Snape stood watching the students file out of the room, many of them groaning vaguely about the immense amount of Potions research that had just been assigned to them, due next class.

“Draco, you were a prurient brat today. You must learn . . . to behave.” Snape’s mouth formed a thin line.

“Sir?” Draco stared up at the pale face of his Slytherin mentor.

“Regarding Miss Black.”

“Oh, her!” Draco laughed and relaxed. “Right, prof--”

“Draco, you will do well to learn sooner than later that being a cad _all_ the time is not the way to a goal. You have to at least know how to hold some feelings . . . in reserve. Don’t always show your hand. You are too young to fully understand me.”

Draco smirked. In spite of Snape’s dressing him down, he was unable to resist sharing his father’s recent intimations. “Y’know, she’s _been_ with my dad. Years ago. He told me everything.” He leaned in close, under Snape’s flaring nostrils. “Said she was a damn good--”

Snape held up a finger so swiftly that Draco half-expected sparks and a spell to fly out of the white-cuffed black arm and hit him in the face. “Draco. You have much to learn. You must . . . never . . . disrespect a teacher here at Hogwarts. Even one related to Sirius Black.” Snape pronounced the syllables as if they produced a foul taste in his mouth. “Do you understand . . . me?”

“Why--er, of course, of course--Sir,” sputtered Draco, pink-faced.

Snape turned swiftly on his heel and swept out the back of the classroom to his adjoining office leaving Draco staring after him.

 

Carrying her broomstick, Clarissa raced out the door of her suite to the stairs that led to the courtyard, where trees, wind, sun, and earth greeted her. Jogging along the bridge--the view out across Black Lake on one side, and deep purple and green valleys on the other, always took her breath away--she made the sharp turn to descend to the trail leading to the Forbidden Forest. She hopped lightly up onto the broom that had been custom-made for her by an artisan at Troyan. Within seconds she was zipping amongst the trees.

The surge of breath and blood was a welcome distraction from scenes of the day that filled her mind like buzzing insects. A good workout always did have the power to clear her head. How do non-athletes survive the insanity of day to day living?

Her breathing became steady, deep, and smooth like the long, spiralling swirls she made through the forest. Trees whizzed by. Soon the castle was far behind her.

She considered surprising Sirius with a visit to his cave. She would be going right by there in another minute or two. --No. Too risky. She might be observed. And conversation held little appeal.

Images of the day danced in her mind’s eye. The fresh faces. The eager looks, the open-eyed curiosity aimed at her. The goofy questions she was pelted with: “Is Black Lake named for your family, Ms. Black?”--“No, dear, it’s just a black lake. No relation.” And from more than one girl: “What happened to your _hair_ , Ms. Black?” She acknowledged, casually, she hoped, that prison life changed a person, right down to the roots of one’s hair. The girls had stared back, in awe. She would not dream of telling them the whole story: that her head had been routinely shaved by trolls assigned the task of lowering the morale of female Azkaban detainees. There had also been whispered comments about her past at Hogwarts: the Quidditch Queen, the bright student who “didn’t apply herself enough, just like her brother” (long ago those had been Professor McGonagall’s exact words). “Dumbledore’s Favourite . . .”  How long it had been since she was that free-spirited girl.

Draco Malfoy. Damn him. She remembered the feeling of heat creeping up her neck and the sneer on his face, the face so unsettlingly like his handsome father. She felt a rush a nausea and put on a burst of speed. Lucius is certainly capable, she thought, of bragging to his teenage son about a sexual conquest. He is one sick fuck, she thought. And now he’s raising a son to be just like him.

An hour later, Clarissa’s mood was restored. Thoughts of Lucius, Draco, and the classroom were scrubbed from her mind by the mountain ridges coated with dark green pines where she completed intense high-climbing and diving drills. Soaring back over the castle, she dismounted and carried the broomstick across the courtyard breathing deeply, admiring the intensified sunset colours over the valley.

Above her, each on a different floor of the castle, three men observed her return.

 

 


	4. The Pub

Clarissa Black was in the mood for a drink. The first two weeks of school had flown by, a blur of lessons, which included--much to students’ surprise--their first assigned creative group project of the term.  Apparently Professor Binns did little of the sort to engage students. No wonder the kids seemed to respond well to a little freedom; it was clear that for the most part the “pure” academic courses at Hogwarts, like History (as opposed to applied studies, like Potions, Herbology, or DDA), had been long stuck in Edwardian methods of rote lectures and memorization. Day to day she found herself completely absorbed in teaching and had given little thought to her spying duties; periodic mirror chats with Sirius had been an annoyance, as he wanted clear and concrete reports about the daily comings and goings of Snape. It was hard to convince Sirius that she was completely occupied with classes, meetings, marking--and when she could carve out the time, hikes and broom work through the woods or above the hills.

Yoga and a hot bath after Friday classes had relaxed her some, but an evening of reading or an old favourite film would not suffice. She changed into a simple dress, added a touch of lipstick and a spritz of her favourite perfume, and headed for the Three Broomsticks.

A soft rain had begun to fall as she neared the pub. From the entranceway she glimpsed the pale face, sharp features and dark figure of Snape at a far corner table.

Well, she thought. He ought to do. Even though it feels rather like homework.

His cutting remark from nearly two weeks ago about exploiting Dumbledore’s goodwill echoed in her head as she took off her cloak and shook it free of raindrops. She ran her fingers through her damp, dense curls and noted with satisfaction that Severus Snape glanced in her direction momentarily.

Okay, here goes. Be charming, your most charming, jaunty self. Casual. Funny. Think American. Right. Think . . . Lauren Bacall in _Dark Passage_.  As a kid, Hollywood movies had sustained her, along with reading--though naturally, films had been officially forbidden in the Black house as distinctly Muggle-ish. Bogart and Bacall, that’s the way it should be, she thought. But as she crossed the room towards the stiff figure of Snape, she felt a definite sense of dread. Deep breaths. Be calm. You’ve taken on dementors, silly. How bad can he be?

She swept near the table where he sat with an open bottle of claret next to a glowing candle. She thrust her left hand onto her hip. “Come here often?”

Snape looked up, and gazed at her coolly. “Indeed.”

What a bloody reptile, she thought. Does he ever dust off his sense of humor? Does he have one? “Ah. Well. I was just wondering if . . . you were in the mood for company?”  Her words hovered awkwardly in the dim air.

Snape looked sideways at her, slightly annoyed, she thought. He sipped his wine and slowly, carefully set it on the table.

She felt the strong urge to walk away, thinking how good a strong drink in the next room would taste; there would be music soon, after all, and Rosmerta would surely come chat her up. Maybe she could get Tonks to do a quick fly up from London? But she tried with him  once more. “If you would rather not be troubled tonight--”

“The seat is available.” He bowed his head toward the empty chair at her left hip.

“Oh, well. In that case,” she said as she wiggled the chair out and seated herself. She smiled brightly at the pallid face with the beakish nose and flat black eyes before her.

Madame Rosmerta sauntered over from the bar and asked Clarissa, “What’s your poison tonight?”

“Do you have Auchentoshan? The Malt?”

“Sure thing, love.” She winked. “That’s good stuff. Of course, it’s the Black family’s traditional spirit, ain’t it? Single or double?”

She was thinking, How about a triple? but said, “Make it a double. Neat.”

Rosmerta sidled back to the bar, ushering in awkward silence. Clarissa looked at Snape momentarily. His attention was focused on his own hands resting around his glass in the center of the table. She gazed at the pale hands. They only half emerged from the black tunic sleeve, the white cuffs of which came all the way to the base of his thumbs. Long, elegant fingers with neat nails tapped the small glass of wine--or was it sweet vermouth? The thumb and first fingertip on each hand were singed black. She wondered if they were always blackened, or if he’d had a recent accident in the Potions Lab. She gazed around the room, relieved when she saw Rosmerta returning with her drink.

“How have your first two weeks been, Prof--er, Severus?” She sipped the brown liquid and welcomed its familiar warming trail down her throat.

“Why are you here, Miss Black?” Snape’s flinty baritone was about as warm as frozen metal on metal.

“ _Here_ , here?”--Clarissa pointed down at the table--“Or here _here_?”--her hands moved in large arc over them. Not waiting for him to respond, she continued.  “I’m sure I’m _here_ -” taking a drink of whisky--“For the same reason you are. To unwind after a crazy week with the children.” She took another sip.

Snape sipped his wine delicately. Tacitly.

“So, how long have you been teaching, Severus?” Using his first name was a strain.

“Ten years,” he intoned slowly.

“Does it seem . . . so very long?” She chuckled.

The effects of the malt were swift and welcome; Clarissa found herself easily becoming that best, suave, Lauren Bacall version of herself. Just shorter, she thought. She even found herself . . . _enjoying_ the conversation, just a little. He’s not _so_ bad. Certainly he cultivates a sense of the macabre in his self-presentation. Appalling fashion from another century. So many buttons. That uber-deep voice is surreal; does he know he sounds like he’s imitating an old-time horror movie villain? But his features aren’t exactly ugly, up close like this, and by candlelight. His bearing has a certain regal aspect. Prominent nose, must be the family nose. Hair wouldn’t be so bad if trimmed, and washed . . .

Now that _is_ good Scotch, she thought.

“So, Severus,” she continued, emboldened. “What do you like to do in your spare time? I mean, students can’t take up all of your energy.”

“Well, they are my living. But I like a quiet life. I enjoy reading.” Snape set his drink down and removed a thin, flat object--a piece of parchment, was it?--from a pocket of his long tunic. He glanced very briefly before picking his drink up once more.

“What do you read?”

“Professional literature, mostly. And archival materials. Ancient texts.”

“Ah! Do you ever visit the Phineas Nigellus Black Collection in the Hogwarts Library?” Her blue eyes sparkled a touch, playfully.

“Of course. It’s the most extensive archive of Dark Arts texts in the world. But--Phineas Nigellus is your ancestor, wasn’t he?” Snape spoke now with a certain reverence. Was it Clarissa’s imagination, or were his eyes suddenly a bit different? Was it the candlelight? Or had his irises momentarily flashed clear golden brown through the opaque black?

“Great-great-great grandfather,” she said, laughing. “At least I think that’s right. Ours is more a thicket than a family tree.”

She was about to ask him a carefully worded question about his own family, when the front door opened. Her back was to the door, but she felt the wind and heard a hearty, “Good evening, Rosmerta!”

Turning to look at the source of the breezy greeting, she recognized the tall figure, smoothly chiseled features and gleaming, brown wavy hair of Nathan Willis Easterly, the visiting Dark Arts teacher. Almost simultaneous with his entrance, the smoky-dark, low tones of a tenor saxophone pulsed from the next room, accompanied by tinkly piano notes and brushy drumstrokes. Easterly called out his drink order to Rosmerta and crossed quickly to where Clarissa and Snape sat.

“Mind if I join you?”

Clarissa met Nathan Willis Easterly’s smiling gaze. His cool green eyes fringed with dark lashes and just a hint of crow’s feet were downright sexy.

Easy there, girl, she warned herself. Keep that guard up.

Easterly sat down in the empty seat across from Snape. Sitting between the two men she could sense an immediate shift in Snape’s manner.  His face was immobile and eyes flat black again as he sipped the wine and observed Easterly coolly. It was as if some shutter system inside his face had snapped the portals closed.

“Hope I’m not interrupting you two!” Easterly was jovial. He opened his coat to take out a pack of cigarettes. “Surely, you don’t mind if I . . .” He fumbled in the breast pocket for matches.

“Ah, well, Severus and I were just talking about the Phineas Black Collection--”

“Your great-great--no, _three_ times great grandfather’s famed Dark Arts room of the library! Ah, yes. It’s fantastic, Clarissa!” He stuck the cigarette in his mouth and put a hand on hers for just a moment, giving  her a crooked grin. Then he lit the cigarette.

“--And what he likes to read in his spare time,” she finished.

“Oh, right. You must be a big reader I bet, yes. I can imagine all that time in the dungeon must be filled somehow.” Easterly blew smoke just over Snape’s head.

Snape’s eyebrows arched.

“And so sorry, mate, about the Dark Arts job. Dumbledore must find you absolutely indispensable at Potions.”

Snape merely sipped and looked past his male colleague.

The shades are drawn, Clarissa thought, glancing up at the blank black eyes. Damn. As Easterly relayed some gossip about a Ministry official recently found guilty by the Wizengamot, Clarissa wondered how the man would know that Snape had applied for the position of Dark Arts teacher. Surely not from Dumbledore. She herself had heard the whole tale from Minerva one night after dinner. According to Minerva, Snape was livid this time round. Clarissa had asked why Dumbledore continued to pass Snape over for the position he coveted; Minerva had brushed her question aside, stating simply that Dumbledore knew best what each faculty member should be teaching. Snape’s immense talent for Potions was not to be wasted, after all. Gazing over at the dark figure sipping the red wine, Clarissa had to wonder if Dumbledore trusted Snape completely with the Dark Arts.

Rosmerta approached the table with a tray. “Gin and tonic for Mr. Easterly? And another claret for you, Severus.”

Easterly nodded and smiled at Rosmerta, putting a hand on her extended arm. “Nathan, please.” He sipped, then remarked, “I have heard marvellous things so far about your teaching, Clarissa.”

“Well, I am loving the children. They are a few notches more fun than dementors!” She laughed lightly.

“But of course. The students are quite enthralled to have discussions in History class! Is this part of the new Ministry Pedagogy, pray tell? Or a theory of your own?”

Clarissa reflected a moment. “I spent time studying comparative epistemologies before Azkaban. Good thing, as it gave me a lot to think on while I was there. Hogwarts is an amazing opportunity to put some of my ideas into practice.”

“That is fascinating.” He flicked ash into a small dish. “So, how is Harry doing for you?” Easterly looked intently at her face. Sitting this close she observed that he never quite made direct eye contact. Odd. But as he moved in closer, she detected a lovely woodsy perfume emanating from Nathan Easterly.

Snape made a throat-clearing noise.

Easterly took the cue that Snape must have something to say on the subject, and addressed him. “I would really like to know from both of you: how do you find Harry as a student? Is he the boy wonder he’s famed to be?”

Snape looked at him, blank. “Hardly.”

Clarissa spoke up. “I have found Harry willing to express his views, when I’ve called on him. Seems very bright. Really a lovely boy. But I have to believe his reputation is hard to carry. He likes to blend into the background a bit. Difficult, with the Tri-Wizarding Tournament coming up and the whole Wizarding World watching him. Especially given the bizarre way his name came up for the Tournament.” After Cedric’s name appearing, Harry was the second Hogwarts student chosen by the Goblet of Fire--an event previously unheard of.

Snape’s face registered vague surprise.

Easterly nodded. “Yes . . . though in my class he feels he has rather a lot to prove. He takes on the most difficult tasks, so far. Consistently gets in over his head.” He sipped his gin and tonic while looking just to the side of Clarissa’s eyes.

Snape grunted something that sounded like “Arrogant.”

Clarissa looked surprised at Snape’s gruffness. But she went on to a new topic. “Well, I really think that the Granger girl is a fabulous scholar. And she and Harry are very good friends, I hear. Interesting pair.”

Leaning back in his seat and placing an index finger alongside his smooth cheek, Easterly nodded. “But she’s a bit of a show-off. Insecure about her upbringing, I’d say.”

“Her upbringing?”

“You know, her being--of Muggle origin.”

Snape merely sipped.

Clarissa feigned surprise at this statement. “And so what if she’s a Muggle?”

Easterly responded, “Aren’t exactly keeping up the Black family stance on bloodlines, are we, Clarissa?”

Clarissa felt herself flushing faintly.

Snape watched this exchange with a faint grin.

“Well, Easterly--”

“Nathan, please.” He placed a hand atop Clarissa’s as he said it.

She raised an arm to fluff out her curls on one side, dislodging his hand. But she smiled at him, ever so briefly. “Nathan, then. It would seem to me that anyone with such concerns over bloodlines would be the more likely party to be termed _insecure_.”

“Oh, touche, dear.” Nathan Easterly batted his thick eyelashes and cocked his head to the side. A lock of dark curls tilted over his forehead. He took a drag on his cigarette.

Clarissa wondered if he were always this flirtatious, or if he had a special interest in her. Or perhaps his special interest was irritating Snape.

Abruptly Snape changed the subject, addressing Clarissa. “How is Draco Malfoy doing for you?”

“Oh, he struggles, so far. But he seemed intent on getting into my class, so I suppose he enjoys history. The advanced level is not required, you know, and many students do skip this one.” She recounted the add slip episode, though without detailing his immature efforts at vulgarity. “Draco seems to enjoy lording his father’s position over the others.”

Easterly guffawed.

Clarissa stared at him. “What’s so amusing, then?” She sipped her Scotch.

“Oh, nothing, really. It just occured to me. His mother is your cousin, after all. Must be a tad bit awkward for you.”

Clarissa was unsure what he was driving at, and said so.

“Don’t be so sensitive, Clarissa. I just meant that the boy has already put you in an awkward spot, using his family connections to get into your class.”

Clarissa was irritated, but whether at Easterly, Draco, or perhaps Lucius, she was not sure. She said, “I would have hoped such connections wouldn’t open doors so easily at Hogwarts.”

Snape now looked at her with mild surprise. “But of course they do. Surely you of all people recognize that. You must enjoy the last name of Black. Or, would you prefer not to utilize _your_ family connections here?”

Clarissa stared hard at him. “Currently, the name of Black is most closely associated with Azkaban.”  She suddenly felt very tired of her colleagues. “Gentlemen,” nodding to both men, “I feel spent by the week and will take my leave. But I thank you for the company.” She downed the rest of her drink.

Easterly rose with her. “But of course, I will be pleased to escort you back.”

She smiled at him. Snape sat and sipped his claret.

“Nathan, I appreciate the genteel offer, but it’s unnecessary.” She dropped a stack of silver sickle coins on the table to cover her drink as well as a healthy tip for Rosmerta. She bowed slightly to Nathan Easterly and Severus Snape, walked to the front of the bar, and retrieved her cloak.

Rosmerta gave her a nod from behind the bar. Clarissa walked over to her.

“Can I have a bottle of the family spirit sent up to the Ravenclaw Head of House Suite?”

"Sure, love, that's the usual way for Hogwarts. You want the regular delivery?" Rosmerta winked at her.

The men gazed after the bob of thick honey-brown curls as she exited the pub.

 

 


	5. Have Guns--Will Travel

“Ms. Black? May I come in?”

Clarissa looked up from the stack of papers she was reading. Harry Potter stood in the door of her office.

“Come in, Harry. What can I do for you?” Clarissa set the stack of papers to the side and offered Harry a seat across from her desk.

Harry glanced around at the small space. It reminded him of Ms. Black herself: full of energy and colour. An exotic-looking bright green dress with folkloric red, gold, and black embroidery hung on a wall. Clarissa saw Harry looking at it.

“From Bulgaria,” she said. “I was once part of a dance troupe while studying abroad.” She laughed. “I’m not a great dancer, but it was fun. And good exercise.”

Looking around, Harry was drawn to a glass case across from her desk. Inside were half a dozen old-looking pistols and other firearms of various sizes. Several were exquisitely carved (ivory, perhaps?); one had a beautifully detailed grip of inlaid wood.

“Are these Muggle firearms?”

“They are. Some are American. I find them quite fascinating. These are working weapons, which is why I never store the bullets with them! And that case is protected by a very serious spell.”

“Do you shoot?”

She nodded, smiling at his surprise.

Harry’s attention next rested on a flute perched length-wise on a nearby music stand.

“Do you play, too, Ms. Black?”

“No, never learned, unfortunately. That instrument’s from Vienna. Purely for decoration, in here--though it could be played. Do you play music, Harry?”

“No, I don’t. Never had a chance for anything like that as a kid.”

Clarissa grimaced and then smiled at him sympathetically. She was struck anew by how closely he resembled his handsome father. Truly remarkable. But of course, the brilliant green eyes were all Lily.

“Right. I can understand. The Black house was not one devoted to childhood fun. I gather growing up with the Dursleys was no picnic, either!”

Harry shook his head. “Certainly, never a picnic. Now, _they_ liked picnics. But I usually stayed home!” He laughed at his own joke, and Clarissa joined in. “But I play Quidditch. Like you did. I’m a Seeker, too.”

“I understand that you are quite good,” she offered.

He shrugged. He knit his brow and ruffled his hair, exposing the jagged scar that ran down his forehead.

Clarissa waited.

“Ms. Black, I--”

“Yes, Harry?” Her voice was nonchalant.

“Ms. Black, I might have trouble getting my essay done for Friday. I--I--I have the training for the Triwizard Tournament coming up, and--and--” Harry stopped, and the look on his face told Clarissa he was deeply worried about more than her assigned comparative essay on world magical cultures.

Clarissa breathed deeply and said, “Harry. Something is really troubling you today.”

Harry looked relieved. “Yes. I’m-- I’m terrified actually. Been having really strange and scary dreams. Cedric and I, in the Tournament together, and something horrible always happens to one of us, some different terrible thing each night. He drowns, or I get burned up by a dragon, or we both are strangled by Gillyweed in murky, nasty water. . . . And all around me, all the time, the voice of Voldemort.” Cedric Diggory was a Sixth Year Hufflepuff student whom Clarissa had seen around school; she knew Cedric’s father Amos from her years at the Ministry.

“Voldemort’s voice--it is . . . horrifying! It--has lodged itself in my head and I can’t seem to shake it loose!” Harry was now perspiring profusely. His eyes darted wildly about the small space of the office. “It’s awful. High-pitched. Papery, thin, cold . . . Like a razor cutting into me.” He spoke simply.

Clarissa was troubled. “That is bad. The Tournament itself sounds like enough of an ordeal. I can imagine it’s very unsettling to have that voice . . . Have you spoken to Dumbledore about it?”

“No, but I’ve tried. He seems suddenly busy whenever I get near him.” Harry looked uncomfortable and sad. “I hate to bother him.”

Clarissa’s eyes flashed violet sparks. “You are rather important to Dumbledore, Harry. You should never feel as if you are bothering him!”

“Well, I do, I guess. I can’t tell if he’s--brushing me off and wanting to handle things myself, since I will be turning seventeen next summer, after all, or if he really doesn’t know how bad . . . how bad it gets for me.” Now Harry was close to crying. His jaw had started to tremble uncontrollably, and he was squeezing his eyes shut.

“Oh, I am sorry, Harry. You carry a lot on your shoulders. I told Sirius so the other--”

“You told Sirius?” Harry’s eyes were now wide open.

“Well, yes. We talk from time to time, you know.”

“Well, yeah, of course. I just . . . don’t hear from him very often. Less, lately.”

Clarissa swallowed hard and thought a few moments. “I imagine Sirius’s habits are hard for you to fathom.” And you’re not alone there, she thought.

Harry nodded briskly and brushed wetness from his face.

“You’ll be hearing more from him soon.” Straightaway, if I have any say about it. She handed him a few tissues from the desk.

Something had again shifted in the boy’s face. Clarissa could sense a certain--resignation in his slightly slumped shoulders. He merely nodded at her and stood up.

“I--I should probably go now. I have class.”

“Harry. Just wait a moment. I want you to take all the time you need on the essay. Don’t let it worry you in the least. Concentrate on preparation for the Tournament. And try to relax some, too. You know, the Ball will be here before you know it!” The Equinox Ball was the highlight of the fall season, for teachers as well as students.

Harry nodded at her. As he walked out of her office, she said to herself, “Hang in there, Harry.”

She crossed the office to the adjoining classroom where she cleared the chalkboard with a flick of the wrist. She thought for a moment about the Psychology Elective coming in next. “But a spot of tea first,” she decided, turning back into her office.

Nathan Willis Easterly stood in the center of the small room.

“Mr. Easterly! You startled me!” she exclaimed. Indeed, she had almost run into him.

“Miss Black. I apologize. I wonder, have you seen Harry?”

“Yes. Why?” Harry just left, she thought. Wouldn’t Easterly have seen him?

“I just needed to follow up with him. About a question for class. He needed an extension on an assignment.”

“Yes, he was just in here, asking me about the same thing.” She watched Easterly carefully, but he gave nothing away. She was suddenly very glad she had revealed no more to Harry about Sirius. Easterly had possibly overheard every word of the conversation.

Clarissa sent Easterly on his way and then conjured up a spot of tea. She knew a visit to Dumbledore needed to be her next priority after Psychology class.

 

 


	6. Not the Same Girl

There had been no talk with Dumbledore that day; he was simply nowhere to be found on campus, and no one seemed to know where he was. “The man needs a secretary, clearly,” she thought ruefully. “At least then someone would know where the hell we was and when he’d be back!”

After class, she headed out to the forest, soon settling into a steady pace aboard her broom. Just beyond the entrance to the Forbidden Forest, she flew past a large, black dog on the path. She wheeled back.

“Sirius! Giles’s ghost, am I glad to see you! Where have you been?” She hovered alongside the dog which quickly rose up into the human form of her shaggy-haired, lanky brother.

“Nice to see you, too, Clarissa, dear. You’re looking well.”

“Well, _you_ look like shit. But you usually do when you’ve been prowling around as Padfoot. Been checked for vermin lately?”

Clarissa hopped off the broom and shouldered it; he ambled along beside her. “Indeed, Clarissa, looking quite smashing. The hair has grown out nicely, but it’s a whole new image for you, isn’t it? I do love the grey!” He playfully touched the arching white streak.

She laughed in spite of the fact that the loss of her blond locks had been anything but easy to stomach. It was as if insult had been added to injury: the dementors did their best to rob her of her health, her wholeness and her sanity. . . . They had to take her most sumptuous physical feature, too?

Glancing over at Sirius she couldn’t help but realize that now, with her curly hair grown out,  she resembled him more than ever. Walking with him, she found herself thinking back to her Quidditch training days. How long ago it seemed that Sirius was hell-bent on making her the next star Gryffindor Seeker. They had put in thousands of miles together on brooms; Sirius was a natural coach.

And naturally bossy, she thought, with a smirk.

“I’ll try not to be your boss out here. This is your territory, not mine,” Sirius said flatly.

Startled, Clarissa realized Sirius had been reading every thought. “Damn, you are good.” She shook her head, irritated at herself.

Sirius’s voice became softer. “I’m not _that_ good. And why would you defend against _me_? By the way. You mourn the loss of that beautiful blond hair. But this hair really suits you, ’Rissa. It’s . . . thick, and striking. It shows that you’re stronger than those dementors you outlasted.”

She breathed in deeply and nodded, running her hands through the mass of springy curls.

“But do be careful, little sis. Wouldn’t do to let Snape get into that pretty head of yours and figure out why you’re really here. Or even worse, for You-Know-Who to get in.”

Why _am_ I really here? Clarissa thought, but this time with careful concentration on keeping her head closed to the skilled Legilimency of her older brother. More than keeping an eye on Snape, she had been focused on her teaching, and on her rehabilitation at the Hogwarts Hotel, as she liked to call it. But her mind darkened as she thought of her conversation with Harry earlier that day.

“Sirius, I’m worried, _really_ worried about Harry. I need to tell Dumbledore.”

“What’s up with Harry?”

“What’s up? The poor kid! He feels a lot of weight on him. And he misses you, needs to hear from you. You--and I--we’re the closest thing he has to family now.”

Sirius grimaced, then nodded. “I do forget he’s so young. Hasn’t been fully hardened yet like the rest of us. I will send him an owl this week to set up a mirror visit, I promise. Tell him to keep his chin up, and all that.”

Clarissa hopped lightly over a rock and kept the steady pace of their hike, now heading uphill. Breathing a bit more heavily, she nodded and said, “Regular letters would be great for his spirits. It doesn’t have to be mirror-talk. I know your schedule is unpredictable. . . . And mirror visits are rather risky inside his suite, aren’t they?”

He ignored her hint. “So, what has our Snivellus been up to?”

She shrugged. “Not much that I can see. Keeps to himself, though he visits Dumbledore for an extended period a few times per week.” She enjoyed recounting the story of the Three Broomsticks. “I was getting him to talk, making progress. He shut down when Easterly came in, though.” She relayed his pointed remark about family connections. “Snape’s a real piece of work, isn’t he? And Easterly is also a puzzle. Blatantly, and clumsily hitting on me. What is he?--twenty-two? Twenty-three? I don’t need that.”

“You don’t need--?”

“You know. Flirtations. Especially with such a boy!”

“There was a time when you would have enjoyed it--and had a little fling, if only for the exercise!” Sirius elbowed his sister in the ribs. “Being thirty does not make you an old maid. You know, a little fun would do you some good.”

“I’m thirty-one, and you are appalling,” she said. “You make me sound like the town whore.”

Sirius merely raised his eyebrows.

“I acknowledge I used to be a little . . . loose with my attentions. And judgement.” The statement was matter-of-fact. “At any rate, the Equinox Ball ought to give me something on Snape.”

“What do you have in mind for him?” Sirius laughed.

“Oh, I have a few ideas. I’m increasingly convinced he’s in fact warm-blooded, you know, as opposed to full reptile.” She relayed her observation about his eyes.

“There might be a way in, there,” Sirius offered. “You might try reading him.”

She agreed. It had occurred to her, too, that Snape could be penetrated at such moments.

“But, ’Rissa, has it not occurred to you that he and Dumbledore . . . might be more than just friends?”

“Well, of course it has _occurred_ to me. But I don’t think so. They are more like father and son, or brothers. And I sense that Snape’s sexual interests lie with women only.” She realized her instinct was not only due to his energy shift when she was chatting him up at the pub, but also the way he became subtly more engaged in meetings when Madame Pince the librarian--or Charity Burbage--sat near him. Around his own sex he showed no desire for connection. She knew it was not much to go on. But years of observing men had surely taught her something.

“Right. He was smitten with Lily in school, I know. Well, certainly, getting to know him better could prove useful. You are quite charming. Just be bloody careful.”

As they reached open hillside leading back towards the school, the Whomping Willow came into view. Clarissa recalled the story from her childhood about a terrible prank her brother had played on Snape. Along the underground tunnel beneath the tree, Severus had been lured into the path of Remus Lupin who was fully morphed into a werewolf. She reminded Sirius of the incident as they cut a wide path around the dangerous tree.

“You know, Snape could’ve been killed that night.”

Sirius looked uncomfortable. “Well, how do we know that wouldn’t have better for all of us? But--okay, I know it was a bit much. I was a kid.”

Clarissa didn’t voice her thoughts, and hid them carefully: And _now_ , you’re mature? Aren’t you still seeing Severus Snape through the eyes of sixteen-year old Marauders?

 

“Severus! I am delighted to see you here. How is the school year progressing? Still keeping the students frightened to death of you?” Dumbledore’s brilliant blue eyes gleamed at his old friend as he welcomed him into the beautiful, warmly lit circular study.

“Yes, dear Headmaster, terrifying the children as always.” Snape’s eyes were incandescent brown, flecked with gold.

The older man bent close to the other to retrieve a piece of white lint from the shoulder of Snape’s black tunic. “Good man. Drink?” Dumbledore waved a hand and bottles of red liquid appeared on the small table next to him. “Sweet vermouth? Or claret tonight? Or will you surprise me with a request for a martini?”

Had Clarissa been watching this jovial exchange, she might have questioned if these were the same two gravely ponderous men she knew to wander the halls and grounds of Hogwarts. Here they were rather like old biddies who might, in the next moment, admire each other’s hat and hairdo, and swap coupons for the green grocer.

Snape considered a moment and said, “The Byrrh’s, if you would, please. You know how I hate to make waves.”

“Of course.” Dumbledore poured two small goblets of vermouth, and handed one to Snape.

Snape nodded his thanks. Before taking his seat in the tall wing chair opposite the Headmaster, he removed a small rectangular piece of parchment from his pocket and set it on the small table next to him.

Facing one another, both sipped silently for several moments.  Dumbledore stretched his legs in front of him and twisted his feet sideways a few times. Snape smoothed his tunic, took in and sighed out a long breath, and gazed around the room. Above them, Fawkes contributed satisfied twitterings to the air space.

Snape spoke first. “You know, Albus, the new Defence teacher is an interesting sort. Wherever did you find him?” His voice arched with mild sarcasm.

“Severus, you aren’t going to suggest I could have done better than Mr. Easterly, are you? He’s highly qualified, you know. Top of his class at Durmstrang. And met all the requirements to study as an Auror.”

Snape shifted in his seat and sipped. His eyes flashed momentarily to their former black and his left cheek twitched ever so slightly. Finally he said, “Auror? Then why did he come here?”

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow expectantly. He could not resist toying with his friend. “He must really want to share his gifts with the children. But dear man, something disturbs your usual serene self?”

Snape could not help but smile at the alliterative jibe. He set his glass down. “Albus, let me be frank. Nathan Easterly is a pompous cretin, and I am beside myself with indignation that I was passed over yet again to teach my favourite subject. A cretin, Albus! A complete cad.”

“Do tell. And beautifully alliterative, by the way.”

Snape’s voice became slightly more animated. “The other night I was out at the Broomsticks pub with Clarissa Black. We were enjoying a drink together--”

Dumbledore held up a finger to interrupt. “You were out? With Clarissa, Severus?”

Snape shook his head with some impatience. “No, no . . . I didn’t mean to suggest . . . She arrived there on her own, and I invited her to sit and have a drink, when this Easterly barges in, takes over the conversation, and . . . well, it was quite amusing, actually, to see Clarissa handle him. You know, Albus, she is not the same girl who was the toy of Lucius Malfoy back at the Ministry. Then, she had the reputation for being . . .  shall we say, frivolous with her attentions.”

Dumbledore feigned shock, clutching his chest. “Really? Severus, you are breaking my heart, man. She is the apple of my eye, you know. One of my very best students, though I admit she never fully applied herself. While here, at least. She did some amazing work out there in the Eastern reaches later on.”

“I’d like to know what exactly she was involved with in Bulgaria. After all, she is a member of the House of Black, Albus.” His face darkened. “The same generation as Bellatrix, Narcissa--”  

“And Sirius, don’t forget,” Dumbledore reminded him.

Snape’s look was withering. “That hardly makes me feel better about her intentions in coming to Hogwarts. Have you considered the two of them may have a plan for her here? You must be careful, Albus.” Severus glanced at his colleague’s wand lying on the table next to them.

“You’re worrying too much. She’s the best hire I’ve made this year. Other than Easterly, of course.”

“Anyway, they’re your _only_ hires this year. But back to Easterly. He was doing his utmost to charm her. Fluttering his eyes. Patting her hands. I think he expects women to more or less disrobe on the spot in response to the action of his eye-batting.”

“Well, I hire nothing but the best in eye-batting, Severus! You yourself are ample proof of that.” He sipped.

Snape ignored the teasing and continued, rather in a rush. “He offered to walk her home. She refused him and simply walked out, into the rainy night.”  Snape smiled faintly as he sipped. He recalled the subtle, rosy-incense perfume left in her wake as she left the table.

Albus looked at his friend over the glass of vermouth, eyes twinkling. “Indeed, Severus, I see you are quite taken with the subject of Nathan Willis Easterly.”

 

Raucous laughter filled Minerva’s suite. Clarissa had just told the women about Draco’s rather inappropriate entrance into her class on the first day of school, complete with his vulgar innuendoes.

Charity Burbage giggled and sipped her wine. “Really, he’s astonishing in his arrogance!” She shook her head. “So like Lucius. But I say, you handled him well.”

“I really didn’t know how to respond! ‘ _Cousin_ Clarissa’! I mean, really!”

Sybill Trelawney, the Divination teacher, made a deep in-breathing noise that became humming. “Oh, but Clarissa, dear, you must not cross that family. I have a bad feeling about it!”

Clarissa waved the comment aside. “Oh, seriously, Sybill. They’re _my_ family! I can handle Draco!” She thought, Well, and I guess I feel the same way about handling Lucius. But a deep resentment buried in her chest prickled a bit at the thought.

Charity Burbage gave Clarissa a sideways glance. “But tell me, what do you think of our new, young Dark Arts professor? Awfully easy on the eyes, eh?”

Clarissa giggled. “Don’t tell me, Charity, you’ve taken to checking out the young men around here?”

Sybill blushed.

“Certainly not! I swore off men while I was in puberty. But I can enjoy a good face.” Charity was matter-of-fact. “Clarissa, you should know, by the way, as I consider you a friend: I am still getting over a difficult break-up. The maths teacher who left at the end of last term--Sarah Hawking--she and I had been together for years.”

“Oh, Charity. I am so sorry.” They all sipped. Clarissa had heard of Sarah Hawking, a gifted Wizarding Mathematician. After a pause, she went on, “Oh, Easterly’s _awfully_ pretty. But I really can’t get a feel for him as a person. He makes me a little uncomfortable, I’ll be honest.” She told the story of his arrival at the pub the previous Friday, his ribbing of Snape, and his disparaging remarks about Hermione Granger.

Charity whistled. “Wow! He really put it in Severus’s face! And why pick on Hermione? Maybe he was just feeling you out, trying to learn your pedagogical sensibilities? He almost sounds . . . like an agent from the Ministry or something.”

Clarissa nodded thoughtfully. “That’s not a bad surmise.”

Minerva looked uncomfortable, and shook her head. “Well, I hardly think Albus would be unaware of the Ministry’s intentions if that were the case.” She sipped.

The room was quiet for several moments.

Clarissa reflected. “By the way. I’ve been meaning to ask about something. I introduced myself at the opening faculty luncheon, and to all of my students, as ‘Ms. Black,’ and students address me as Ms., for the most part. Well, not Draco, when he was being a foul brat. But the old male guard around here insist on addressing me as ‘Miss.’ Why is that?”

Minerva was laughing well before Clarissa finished. “Oh, my dear. This is _Hogwarts_. The old ways are sacrosanct. You can say _Mizz_ all you want, but Albus and Severus, and Hagrid and Argus . . . They will only hear ‘Miss.’ Good luck trying to change them!”

Sybill Trelawney sipped. She remarked, “Well, I rather like the old ways. It suits me. It suits the place. When we insist on equality with men, we lose . . . some of the niceties of being the gentler sex!” Her voice rose in crescendo.

Charity gave Sybill a mildly withering look.  “You know, ‘Ms.’ is very popular in the Muggle world. So of course Albus and Severus are out of touch. But I favor it. It’s progressive. Muggles often lead the way in social changes.”

Clarissa smiled. She had long suspected her Alma Mater was resistant to recognizing that the calendar would soon change over to the twenty-first century.

Minerva said brightly, “I’m just so glad you all are here! Let’s drink to friends!”

Charity, Sybill, Clarissa and Minerva formed a hearty chorus: “To friends!”

 

 


	7. Vienna Blood

_Waxing Crescent_

 

Clarissa fairly flew down the stairs leading to Snape’s cell. “This is too bloody far, too much! I’ll not have it. Not on my watch,” she fumed.

She had started the day already irritated at Dumbledore. _(When are you ever in your office? I’m busy too, you daft old man. I have actual work to do in between visits to the Headmaster’s suite!)_ But her mood broke into pieces when she received word at lunch that Harry and Cedric had had an accident in Black Lake. During morning training exercises for the Triwizard Tournament, the boys had taken Gillyweed as a swim aid. But the type of Gillyweed plant they had used did not provide sustained oxygen delivery. Both had to be rescued by mermaids and were now under the care of Madame Pomfrey in the hospital wing. Clarissa had just been up to see Harry; he and Cedric were resting comfortably, but were badly shaken.

“Professor Snape! A word, if you would?” Her flashing eyes conveyed that this was not merely a request.

“Yes, Miss Black?” Snape had been reaching high up to a shelf in the narrow corridor at the back of his classroom. Beyond this storage corridor was his office, and beyond that, his private quarters.

“I must say, this is entirely unacceptable! Accusing Harry of stealing! Why do you assume that missing Gillyweed plus Harry’s use of the thing equals--Harry is a thief?”

Snape’s stare was absolutely cold, even as Clarissa pressed close to his rather hulking black form in the narrow corridor, her own face flushed.

“Harry Potter . . . does not need your . . . intervention, Miss Black.”

The chill of his statement and the flat black discs of his eyes only fueled her anger. “Well. Funny you suggest it. It seems to me Harry might need some help around here.”

“Harry Potter is an arrogant . . . little . . . prick. He doesn’t need your _mothering_.”

“He’s a boy! Just a boy! How in bloody hell do you get away with bullying all but your precious, slimy Slytherins? Dumbledore must be getting daft!”

His hand swiftly rose over her face, index finger pointing near enough to her cheek to graze it. “Dumbledore is a brilliant man. Do not . . . question this.” Lank strands of hair clung to the sides of his face. His breath was a mix of salt, earth, and indeterminate spice. Black eyes narrowed to slits. The buttons at the neck of his cape, just below Clarissa’s eye level, seemed to be pulsing.

Clarissa stepped back allowing cool air to rush between them, but continued to press her point. “I’ll question what I bloody well want. I think this place is practically negligent in ignoring the real needs of kids! Harry’s expected to do too much, all on his own. I can’t understand the thinking around here, and yes, that means I _am_ questioning Dumbledore’s judgment.”

He stared flatly, waiting.

She paused and breathed in and out a few times. His closed features taunted her.

Damn him, damn him. Where does he get off . . . ? Right bollocks. More deep breaths. Let’s not get our knickers in such a twist, now. Remember, this is the man you are trying to make _comfortable_ with you.

She stepped back and smoothed her blouse. “Well, Severus. Perhaps . . . I need to slow down. I . . . Please excuse me. Where Harry’s safety and well-being are concerned, I can be quite reactive in my new role of Godmother, er--God-Aunt. Whatever. I do not mean to question our Headmaster’s intentions. I only mean to suggest that more could be done around here to ensure Harry’s total well-being.”

Looking up at him was like trying to peer inside a room through heavy drapes. No sign of life inside.

Snape finally spoke slowly in deep, silky tones. “The accident this morning was most unfortunate. But it would not have happened if the boys had been using the proper Gillyweed plant varietal. I’d have given it to them . . . if they had asked. As the one missing from my stores is exactly the wrong type for sustained use in water, I conclude that they took it. Furthermore . . . I have other clear evidence of where the boys have been prowling lately. Evidence that I do not need to share . . . with you, Miss Black.”

Clarissa blinked at him. She didn’t know what to say to this. Upstairs just a few minutes ago, Harry had insisted that neither he nor Cedric had taken the Gillyweed from Snape. She had believed him, implicitly. So what evidence did Snape have of where the boys had been?

“Clarissa Black, you have a lot to learn . . .  about . . . young . . . boys.”  The black eyes were open wide but they revealed nothing. Besides, he was staring just over her head.

The black tunic spun, swooped out of the back of the narrow storage space leaving Clarissa to contemplate the Ginger Root and Gullibility Serum at her eye level.

In a mix of flush, sweat, rapid pulse, and slight nausea, she turned in the opposite direction as Snape and exited the dungeon.

 

The rest of the day was uneventful. Clarissa listened to music, marked papers, read, prepared for next week’s lessons, and went for a run. Bedtime was early, accompanied by a couple of _Womanly Witch Weekly_ magazines. And a couple of generous pours of whisky. Saturday morning she did a little housework, even though house elves rotated the cleaning of faculty quarters. Clarissa found the tasks soothing. She used nails, wire and a hammer to hang several still portraits she had had brought from 12 Grimmauld Place: select pieces from Walburga’s Gainsborough collection, including the _Dupont_ which she hung in her bedroom. She loved the lush colouring and piercing eyes of the nephew of Thomas Gainsborough, the subject of the portrait. Several other Gainsboroughs, along with Reynolds’s _Archers_ , she hung in the hall. Walburga’s paintings were all old-style stills, not moving pictures. It was one of the oddities of her mother’s tastes that she was dead-set against her children’s exposure to Muggle films--but preferred the version of paintings that were seen by Muggles.

Sirius checked in briefly while she was wiping the hall mirror clean.

“Oh! It’s you!” she said, just a bit startled to see the craggy (but still boyish) face and shaggy hair of her older brother materializing amidst swipes of the damp cloth.  “London Calling” by the Clash reverberated around the cave space. . . . She vividly recalled a Hogwarts dance when she and her friends pogo-ed wildly around the dance floor in their best Joe Strummer style.

“Morning, darling. What the bloody hell are you doing? Cleaning up? Whatever would dearly departed Walburga say?” But he did not wait for her to respond. “I have sent Harry a ‘Get Well Soon’ message, and some chocolates from town.”

“Did you go into Honeydukes? As yourself?”

“Well, I did. I figured a man looking in need of a good bath would arouse less suspicion than a large black dog with a money pouch and a sweet tooth.”

“Sirius, you take such stupid chances!”

“You worry too much.”

She admitted she might.

Sirius went on. “I don’t have a lot of time. Something came to my attention from the Ministry recently, about the time while you were working for Lucius. And you know I hate to ask you anything much about that  period. . . .”

“You can ask away,” she said, defiantly, heat creeping into her cheeks.

“Well--I guess I should just be blunt. I had a meeting with the Minister this week. Fudge wants to know how much you know about the Elder Wand file that went missing soon after you left the Ministry.”

“Fudge? Fudge wonders what I know about the Elder Wand file? But he must know Lucius lied about my involvement.”

Sirius nodded, unsmiling. “Yes. But I think you may be asked to report on what you know of the file’s contents in the near future.”

Clarissa grimaced as she remembered Lucius’s face--then, that face was the loveliest thing she knew in all the world--looming over her, the file under them. Somewhere. “Sirius. I saw the thing. I know it was in Lucius’s office when I worked for him. I know he made notes. . . . But I never had intimate knowledge of the file. It disappeared, and I do recall him being quite panicked. But I never knew what came of it. I left for Bulgaria soon after all that flap.”

Sirius looked at her hard. “You wouldn’t hide anything from me about this?”

“Great Martha Corey, no! What would I possibly gain from hiding information from you about that file? What the bloody hell is in it, anyway?”

Sirius shook his head. “I don’t know, I guess it’s just the manual for the Wand. But Fudge is plenty . . . interested.” Sirius looked distractedly to the side, and brushed his hair off his forehead. “I’ve got to run. Go. Enjoy the Ball, darling. I hope it’s a grand time. Request some Clash, for old times’ sake, and show the kiddies how it’s done. I want a full report after.”

“Thanks,” she said. But at that moment she was not feeling much in the mood for a party. As Sirius’s face disappeared from the silvered glass, she found herself thinking back to several occasions in Lucius’s office when she had come upon him scribbling in a small notebook, papers from a fat file spread over the desk which he had swiftly gathered away from her gaze. Lucius had made notes on that file. Why? He was a powerful Ministry director. She was his office intern. Why had he not asked her to make those notes?

 

Clarissa stood at the bathroom mirror finishing her makeup and enjoying just one drink, for a cocktail. After taking a few more sips she lightly brushed powder over her face and decolletage, taking care not to smudge the deep blue silk. Turning side to side, she admired the fitted cut of the off-shoulder, tea-length gown and the way it accentuated her bust and small waist. Aloud, she addressed her mirror image. “You know, not half bad.” Certainly the look was a far cry from the standard blazers and straight skirts that formed her daily teaching wardrobe.

The Scotch was taking the edge off already. Such efficient medicine.

She liked the shiny brown curls, now that they had grown out some and bounced when she tossed her head, “Like so,” she said, smiling. And even the streak had a certain . . . sexiness, maybe. With a laugh she remembered the one useful lesson on femininity her mother had given her as a young girl. Walburga Black told her daughter that any unique feature can be a source of beauty; it all depended on how you felt about yourself. She smiled at the memory of her mother’s prominent black mole at the side of her mouth. And Walburga was right. On her mother, the mole had been a distinctive beauty mark--at least while she remained healthy and whole.  

Yeah, but she was one crazy lady in the end, mole and all, Clarissa thought. She sprayed her wrists and hair with her favourite perfume, tucked her wand into the garter under her dress, and grabbed her silver wrap and matching evening bag.

 

The Equinox Ball was held in the ground level Student Commons area and its adjoining courtyard gardens. As she entered the Commons, the scene took her breath away.

“Goodness, but the kids did a marvellous job!”

The ceiling and walls were swathed in deep blue cloth accented with long, looped pink and peach strands of ribbon. Everywhere hung tiny twinkling silver and gold lights. A long table was laden with sumptuous-looking small sandwiches and other hors d’oeuvres. In the far corner, a small orchestra of stringed instruments, plus trumpets, trombone, saxophone, piano, and drums was at the ready. At the moment, the rhythm section played a gentle backdrop.

Clarissa was immediately greeted by grins and hand-waving from a cluster of her favourite female students at the side of the tables: Luna Lovegood, Cho Chang, Parvati and Padma Patil, and Hermione Granger. They looked adorable, she thought. Like tiny movie stars. Their hair was piled high on their heads, ready to topple over any minute. She guessed that each must have done the other’s hair, and imagined what fun the girly prep session must have been. Hermione was especially gorgeous in a peach-coloured taffeta gown and matching wrap.

She’s going to be a stunner, Clarissa thought. Give her another year or two to figure it out, and she’ll have every boy with a brain trailing after her. And no doubt some girls, too.

She was glad to see that Harry had been released for the night’s revelries, along with Cedric, both looking very dapper--though the boys had been ordered to return to quarters for an early bed-time. Neville Longbottom and Ron Weasley stood with the Triwizard trainees.

Upon spotting Clarissa, Ron clutched at his chest in mock-heart-attack fashion. “Harry! Great Giles’s ghost. Look at her! Woahhh . . . Warning, dangerous curves ahead! She’s _killing_ me.”

Harry put an arm on Ron’s. “Easy, Ron, she is a teacher, you know, and practically old enough to be your Mum.”

“I don’t care, Harry. Me Mum would not look like _that_ in a low-cut dress. And what legs. Bloody _hell_. Please, let me just look at her without thinking about Molly Weasley!” he begged.

Neville Longbottom nodded his open-mouthed, tacit agreement.

Standing next to Neville, Victor Krum, the Durmstrang Quidditch star and Tri-Wizard Tournament participant, said something in Bulgarian, under his breath.

Minerva McGonagall sailed across the empty dance floor to greet her. “Clarissa, you look just marvellous, dear! Love those strappy silver heels. You’re lucky to be short enough to wear them!” Minerva stuck out a foot from beneath her forest-green gown, revealing a rather long and absolutely flat black ballet slipper. “And your nails! Very gutsy . . .”

Clarissa sensed Minerva was about to say “for a woman your age.” Her short nails were painted dark sparkly blue to match the dress.

“Thank you, Minerva.” Clarissa curtsied lightly. “You look very elegant. But, I have to wonder: as head of Gryffindor, you never seem to wear your house colours. You do look lovely in green. But why not scarlet?”

“Red clashes with my complexion, dear. I never wear it. And besides, green enhances my eyes!” Minerva laughed, liltingly.

Clarissa smiled at the idea of no-nonsense Minerva indulging a touch of vanity. “And she’s right,” Clarissa thought. “That rich hue becomes her.”

Dumbledore, Easterly, Snape, and another tall, darkly bearded wizard stood in a row overseeing the proceedings. She felt all four pairs of eyes following her as she crossed to a table stocked with water cups.

Dumbledore strode over to her at once, and kissed a greeting. “Clarissa! Don’t you look stunning. This shade of blue perfectly suits your porcelain skin! And you do know, it matches your eyes.” He hugged her warmly, then stepped back, holding both her hands, to look her over. Pulling her close, he whispered, “And you _smell_ absolutely divine. Do tell me what that is! I might try some of that delicious concoction myself.”

“Thank you, Headmaster. It’s my personal favourite. Elixir of Ettar. From Sredna Gora. A special Bulgarian blend of frankincense and roses.”

He nodded his approval.

Clarissa was gratified by his warmth; was he aware that she had been upset by not being able to see him? “And Professor, I must say, you are looking very well yourself.” She meant it sincerely; Dumbledore had on a gorgeous caftan of spun silver, gold, and pale blue in a flying Phoenix pattern, with more than his usual amount of beads and charms adorning his silvery white beard.

As if in answer to her question, Dumbledore said, “I understand you have been attempting to see me these past two days. I have been kept rather busy with some work at the Ministry. I apologize for any inconvenience to you.”

Clarissa smiled graciously. “Oh, well, it’s good to know, and thank you. You can be an awfully difficult man to pin down. You’re very popular. You need a secretary.”

“So what did you need?” he asked, looking into her eyes, and taking her arm to stroll out into the rose-scented courtyard.

“Well, I have been worried about Harry. And Cedric, now. They’re here, and seem mostly recovered from the underwater incident. But prior to that I was concerned. Harry seems . . . really anxious. Depressed, even. I worry that there is too much pressure on him and not enough support from--from us.” It had been on her mind to say, “from you,” but she thought better of it.

“Dear Clarissa, you make a good point. I tend to forget how young the boy is.” Dumbledore pulled at his beard. “He reminds me so much of James, who never seemed to need a thing from me. But of course, James had the benefit of attentive, wonderful parents. A stable home life. Harry was robbed of these things so early on. Such a shame . . .” Dumbledore shook his head sadly.  “At any rate, thank you, dear, for bringing your concerns to my attention. I will see to the matter shortly.” Now Dumbledore stretched his arms wide. The pair had strolled the perimeter of the gardens and were standing opposite the entrance to the Commons. “But tonight, we have a party! And I must introduce you to someone.” Dumbledore’s eyes were twinkling almost as brightly as the lights delicately illuminating the room.

The tall bearded man had appeared in the doorway as if on cue.

“Igor, please meet my newest hire, Miss Clarissa Black, History of Magic. Clarissa, this is the Headmaster of Durmstrang Institute, Igor Karkaroff.”

Karkaroff bowed low to Clarissa and took her hand, holding it firmly whilst looking intently into her eyes. “I am most pleased to meet you. I understand you have spent some time in our fair Troyanski Monastir?”

“Indeed I have, Mr. Karkaroff. Troyan e _nai-hubavoto myasto_. Beyond words.”

He beamed at her use of his native language. “Please, you will call me Igor.” He still held her hand. Smouldering brown eyes bore into her.

Dumbledore reached up to take her hand, breaking his hold. “Igor, you must allow Miss Black to mingle! She has just arrived at the party.” Dumbledore let her go, patting her back.

Clarissa smiled gratefully at Dumbledore. Karkaroff’s eyes were still a penetrating force, spurring her defensive skills to fire on all cylinders. Turning from the two men, she found Easterly making his way towards her.

“Miss Black--er, Clarissa,” he said, green eyes and dark eyelashes charming her. “May I have the first dance of the evening?”

Smiling, she accepted his invitation as the orchestra broke out in full force.

During two quick, jazzy numbers that included plentiful spins by Easterly, Clarissa was thoroughly glad she had chosen her knee-length dress over a long one. And the last dance, a slow number, was even more fun. Nathan Easterly’s dance skills were astonishing. Plus he is _awfully_ easy on the eyes, she thought, observing the line of his dark trousers on up to his smooth face framed by perfectly trimmed hair. A pair of red and black geometric-patterned cufflinks added a modern touch to the ensemble.

Easterly spoke warmly. “Clarissa, you look absolutely stunning,” sweeping her across the floor and pulling her back into him. He was lavish in his praise. “And what a terrific dance partner you are!”

She felt her face growing flush with effort. She also felt a gentle probing at the edge of her mind. Bastard, she thought. He’s trying to read me! On guard. He’s beautiful and definitely up to no good.

Though it seemed Easterly would have kept her at his side all evening, she knew she could not relax for a second with him. The constant vigilance was already beginning to wear her out. Finally she begged off and made her way to the refreshment table where she helped herself to a glass of red wine. No whisky here! she observed wryly.

Charity Burbage was standing nearby and Clarissa gratefully sidled over to join her.

“Very impressive skills, darling,” she said.

Clarissa laughed. “I assume you mean his!”

Charity smiled and took a drink. “You do quite well. But he’s amazing, isn’t he?”

As if on cue, Easterly strode over to them.

“Miss Burbage, may I have the pleasure?”

Charity grinned at Clarissa as Nathan Easterly led her out on the floor.

As Clarissa stood sipping wine, Charity held her own with the flirtatious Dark Arts teacher. The dance was a fox trot, and Harry and Hermione also put on a good show. Ron stood on the sidelines looking miffed, arms across his chest. Clarissa smiled. Young love. Ouch. On the next dance, a waltz, Hermione ran over to Ron and took him by the hand; she observed Luna approach Harry. The younger sister of Ron Weasley went up to Dean Thomas shyly. You go, girls, she thought.

“Miss Black, might I have this dance?”

Severus Snape had silently appeared at her side.

Clarissa would have been perhaps less surprised if Snape had dumped a glass of wine on her head. Still, she managed to respond, “Good evening, Severus. Dance? Why not?”

The orchestra played “Vienna Blood” by Johann Strauss. Snape led her firmly by the hand, the two swooping around the makeshift ballroom. After a minute of surprisingly effortless movement, he smiled and looked at her somewhat sheepishly. “I need to apologize for how I behaved during your visit to my office, Clarissa. I was . . . inexcusably rude to you. I see now that you came purely out of concern for Harry’s well-being.” As he spoke in deeply reverberant tones the music receded to the background.

“Well, I--” Clarissa was at a total loss for words. She barely heard the lovely, light violin melody of the Strauss. Snape’s face seemed different, somehow. Open. She remembered Sirius’s hint that perhaps she could read him; and yes, his eyes seemed a little less shuttered. Snape’s clothing was also subtly different, not his standard black school tunic. This suit was trimmer, a more elegant fit. Over his shoulders was a silken wrap of intricately woven dark blue, red, and green damask. How extraordinary that he would be a terrific dancer, she thought. He moved in perfect time, guiding her over the floor. She momentarily forgot about trying to read him. This was more fun than she thought possible with Snape.

“Clarissa, when it comes to Harry, I can be . . . gruff. It’s . . . a long and tedious story. But my history with him is no reason to be uncivil to you, and I am sorry.”

“I--I--I should also apologize. I was rather upset when I came to see you.” She found her mind muddling up exactly why she had been so livid. Accusations . . . Harry . . . Gillyweed . . . None of that seemed relevant at this moment. As he spun her lightly, she surveyed Snape’s tall, powerful figure beneath the suit coat. The warmth of his hand in hers, his arm commandingly at her back made her feel more calm and steady than she had felt in ages.

But long conditioning made her question the pleasurable feeling. Stay on your guard, silly. This is _Snape_ you’re feeling cozy with, the man you are here to spy on. Who may serve the Dark Lord. . . . 

Feeling the swoop and sway of Snape with her, she chided herself. Just enjoy the moment. Keep your guard firmly in place, but enjoy. The moment, she thought, is all we really have, ever. She smiled up at him and was amazed to see that Snape looked . . . happy. His pale face was just barely infused with colour. His eyes were flecked brown and had depth: she could see into them. But she could read nothing. His freshly washed black hair swirled behind him; he smelled faintly of exotic, warm dry spice.

The music stopped and Snape bowed low. Clarissa felt a rush of dizziness. The two walked off the dance floor amidst the din of exuberant clapping and a few catcalls from students who were astounded to see Snape dancing with their new History teacher in the short sapphire gown.

Easterly and Charity were also applauding, though Easterly’s slow, deliberate hand claps seemed forced. “Bravo, you two. Lovely dance. You sure have the kiddies going, now.”

Clarissa laughed. Snape looked quite pleased with himself, though flat black eyes now prevented her from seeing in at all.

Hermione, Luna, and Padma Patil wandered past the adults, grinning at them. The three stifled giggles.

Clarissa excused herself to go to the ladies’ room. The evening had been energizing but she was feeling the toll of practicing general Occlumency as well as targeted Legilimency over a sustained period. The bathroom stall, with its semblance of privacy, was a welcome break. Emerging after several minutes, she almost ran full tilt into Luna Lovegood.

“Oh! Sorry, Luna!”

“Don’t worry, Ms. Black. By the way, you look really lovely tonight. I love your dress.”

“Thanks so much, Luna. You look darling, yourself.” Clarissa meant it; Luna’s layered light pink confection looked perfectly retro hip on the tall, lanky blond girl with the wide blue eyes.

“I saw you and Professor Snape had quite the dance.”

Clarissa nodded, and laughed.

“It’s good to see you enjoying yourselves. You’re both such sweet people. You deserve a nice time. Do you know, I think you are my two favourite teachers!” And with that Luna smiled shyly and walked out.

Clarissa chuckled, “I guess that puts me in good company.” But what a rather odd girl. Did she even use the toilet? And did she really just refer to Snape as _sweet_?

Exiting the powder room, she observed the budding romance between Dean and Ginny as the two necked in a corner, as well as the tenuous bond between Hermione and Ron on a nearby bench holding hands. Ron’s eyes followed Clarissa’s every stride as she passed them in the corridor. Hermione gave him a little punch, with an exclamation: “Ronald Weasley. I am right HERE!”

Clarissa hurried past them back to the refreshment table to retrieve her wine. Out on the dance floor, yet another pairing was in progress: Cho Chang and Cedric Diggory were locked in a tight embrace. Taking a gulp from her glass Clarissa saw Cho’s stacked hairdo careening wildly off to one side. Clarissa reached under her dress to grab her wand and uttered a quick spell: “ _Altitudino pullati proceres!”_ She watched with satisfaction as the giant leaning beehive righted itself just before Cedric went in for another kiss. Without magical intervention, Clarissa was sure the two would have been covered in a cascade of shiny black hair in the next moments.

She enjoyed a few more guarded dances with Easterly, as well as a purely fun stint around the floor with Albus.

A smirking Draco Malfoy approached her late in the game. “Clarissa! Just one friendly dance with a cousin?” She gave him a mock-stern look and sent him off, bemused. Really, I need  a break from all men, she thought. She turned toward the moonlit courtyard and ran smack into Igor Karkaroff.

“Miss Clarissa Black,” he said slowly, with a deeply Slavic accent that rolled out her last name as if its vowel were _ya_ , not a simple _a_. His deep-set eyes stared hard at her.

Clarissa’s internal guard immediately was on highest alert against the powerful Death Eater who had aided Voldemort in the First Wizarding War. She had heard that after Azkaban Karkaroff had turned in his own comrades in exchange for a pardon. “Good evening, Mr. Karkaroff,” she said. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

He took her hand and led her toward the dance floor.

“Oh, Mr. Karkaroff--”

“Igor, please,” he interrupted.

Clarissa broke her hand free of his grip. “I am--feeling rather unwell and would prefer no more dancing. I’m afraid so much spinning tonight has thrown off my equilibrium.”

He bowed very slightly. He broke eye contact with her to glance over her entire figure, his gaze lingering on her breasts. She felt herself flushing, with anger as much as embarrassment.

“As you wish, Miss Black. Maybe you would like to sit down?” He indicated several small bistro tables along the side of the dance floor. All had been deserted by students--for cozier, more private corners of the Commons area or gardens, she guessed.

Karkaroff pulled out a chair and motioned for her to sit. She did so, and he pushed in her chair, hovering over her longer than necessary.

Igor Karkaroff and his penetrating gaze settled in opposite her. He gently fingered the tiny vase of flowers in the table’s center. “I understand that you have spent a great deal of time studying the mysticism of my fair homeland.”

She nodded, staring into his dark, hooded eyes. With his striking, dark features, he might be considered quite attractive, she thought, if he weren’t so damn _creepy_. “I love Bulgaria,” she said. “Some of my very best times have been there. Your country--” she put a hand on her chest--“touches my heart.”

He smiled and nodded. “Indeed. Bulgaria is an unforgettable place. It is the birthplace of European civilization, you know! So what brings an Eastern magic and folklore specialist to Hogwarts?  I admire Dumbledore’s taste in faculty, but Hogwarts will not begin to utilize your immense talents, Clarissa.” He leaned in conspiratorially. The intensity of his gaze felt like it burned her.  “You know, I think Durmstrang would be able to offer you a very lucrative and . . . stimulating position.” He leaned back, keeping constant, magnetic eye contact.

“Working again in Bulgaria . . . Really, it’s a compelling idea,” she murmured. She felt like a filmy fog was creeping over her brain. She needed to get away from Igor Karkaroff, and fast.

Abruptly she stood and spread her hands at hip height. “Mr. Karkaroff, I’m very sorry to cut our conversation short, but I have had a very tiring evening.  I am in need of some air, and a rest.” She hastily slipped out the nearby door to the courtyard. Karkaroff stared hard after her.

The moonlit evening was slightly cool, and lovely. The scent of roses again greeted her as she strolled around the garden perimeter. The waxing crescent moon cast a silvery radiance, bathing the ornate trees and shrubs in spectral, strange beauty. She walked out onto the grounds and along the Hogsmeade path to where a clearing overlooked the lake. She stood for several minutes watching the water. Her tiredness lifted just a shade with each breath of clear night air in solitude.

As she turned to walk back into the castle courtyard she had to stifle a laugh. At least five young couples had each found a cozy nook or moderately private corner for snogging.

She thought she’d enjoy one last perfumed stroll around the rose garden before returning to her quarters. Coming round the far edge, Clarissa stopped short as something arrested her attention. At the end of a long grassy pathway, Severus Snape stood facing Igor Karkaroff. Each held his own left sleeve above the wrist. The two men touched their extended left arms together. Then, hastily, each lowered his cuff, bowed, and walked away from the other and out of her sight.

Clarissa shuddered.

 

A short while later, Clarissa lay in her sumptuous bed, thoughts of the evening swirling through her mind like the rich colours of Snape’s silk overlay. The lovely food, the students’ sweet approach to wooing, the music . . . Dumbledore, so dear . . . Minerva, elegant and quirky . . . Easterly, so suave. Maybe too suave. Karkaroff, frightening and intense. Snape . . . surprising. But over it all was the cloud of realization that Sirius may well have been right all along about Snape’s loyalties. What had Snape been doing with Karkaroff outside, besides greeting one another as only Death Eaters could? Again she felt herself shudder.

But of course. As a double agent, Snape would certainly use his status as a Death Eater to make connections. That much made sense. Dumbledore would even . . . want him to.

So was Snape loyal to the Order, or was he _still_ a working Death Eater?

A chilling thought crossed her mind, like dementor breath: What if Dumbledore were unaware of Snape’s activity? What were her responsibilities here? Should she alert Dumbledore to what she had seen? Or just keep quiet?

 

 


	8. A Death on the Trail

After a troubled and fitful night’s sleep which dragged into late morning, Clarissa contacted Sirius in the mirror and told him everything she had seen the night before. She even told him with some misgivings about dancing with Snape, and how . . . it was not exactly unpleasant. As she made her report, she recalled the feel of Snape’s arm pressing against her back. The arm that was emblazoned with the Dark Mark.

Sirius had raised an eyebrow as she spoke.

She was defensive. “Why shouldn’t I get close to him? What better way to find out what he’s up to?”

“Just--be--careful,” Sirius said with an air of condescension. “You sound like you are actually . . . a little _taken_ with him. This is _Snape_ we’re talking about. Don’t forget, he is a highly skilled Legilimens. If you aren’t completely sealed against him, he’ll know everything.”

Clarissa nodded slowly, thinking back to the flicker of warm brown in his eyes. Had she let him see into her last night? She was suddenly quite unsure of herself, of her ability to accurately assess the men around her.

Sirius, reading his sister’s anxiety, offered support. “Likewise, sis, do not forget that you are a highly skilled reader. And defender.” His voice became soft. “I would not have survived those last years in Azkaban without your vicarious defence. My brain was toast, but you stayed with me, and kept the worst of their lot out. You are very powerful. Do not doubt yourself!”

“But just _now_ you read my mind,” she cried. “I can’t do this! I totally let you in.” Clarissa’s mind was a blur of anxieties. It was before noon, but she thought how a drink would do well for her right now.

“Clarissa, since when do you need to maintain defences against your own brother? Besides, you did _not_ let me in just now. I just know you well enough to know when you are kicking yourself.”

Clarissa nodded. She was holding back tears as she thanked him, and said goodbye.

 

She avoided the temptation of an early drink in favor of coffee, eggs, and reading a stack of essays. Then a late afternoon walk in the green forest and some broom work up on the ridge proved wonderfully fortifying. On the return path, while looking down towards the castle, she saw a long procession trooping along the Quidditch practice fields.

“I wonder--” She stopped mid-pace, looking carefully along the row of people.

Oh, god, no, she thought, as she flew at full speed, diagonally along the steep hill towards the slow-moving, somber parade.

 

She reached Dumbledore first, at the head of the line. He greeted her with a long, sad look that filled her with dread.

“Is it--Harry? Is he--okay?” Clarissa was frantically looking along the procession that stretched loosely out behind Dumbledore as she gasped for breath, both from flight and from panic.

He pulled her to the side as those behind him kept slowly moving. Dumbledore had clearly been crying. His face was grave; he put his hand on her arm. “Harry will be okay.” As he glanced down the row of people, she followed his gaze. A ways back, she saw Harry being supported by Minerva on one side of him, Hagrid, the school’s half-giant gamekeeper, on the other. Harry looked badly beaten up, with numerous bloody cuts and bruises on his face and arms. Dark red blood soaked the entire front of his shirt.

Then just beyond Harry the center of the drama came into view. The prostrate body of Cedric Diggory lay on a stretcher carried by Argus Filch, the school caretaker, at the front, and Severus Snape at the back. She felt an involuntary wail rise up out of her.

She managed to utter, “God, Dumbledore, what has happened? How?”

Dumbledore’s face was streaming tears, but he didn’t make any sound. Clarissa took his arm and walked with him.

Once inside, Minerva and Hagrid began leading Harry up to the hospital level.

The Headmaster intervened. “No, Minerva.” Motioning to Hagrid and Clarissa, Dumbledore continued, “We’ll take Harry to my study. Minerva, find Pomona. Tell her what has happened. And then, please, you must contact the Diggorys.”

Minerva nodded sadly, and went upstairs.

Dumbledore pulled Severus aside. “Alert the Order.” Snape swiftly and silently exited the main part of the castle.

 

When Harry was seated on a couch in Dumbledore’s study, Hagrid gave Harry a bear hug, ruffled his hair fondly, and nodded soberly to Clarissa.

“Thank you, Hagrid,” she said, as he lumbered out. His face was streaming wet.

Clarissa began tending to the cuts on Harry’s face. His glasses were missing. Dobby, the faithful house-elf who was now employed by the school, appeared with a bowl of warm water, antiseptic salves, and several towels.

“Thank you, Dobby. That’s lovely,” Clarissa said, wetting a towel in the basin.

“Dobby loves Harry Potter. Very sad to see Master Harry Potter hurt,” said Dobby soulfully. His enormous eyes were even bigger than usual and were dripping tears.

Clarissa set the towel aside to help Harry remove his blood-soaked shirt. Dobby took it away. Dumbledore handed him a clean garment of very soft blue cloth.

As Clarissa wiped the wounds on Harry’s face, she deduced quickly that the blood on his shirt was not Harry’s own. There was no sign on his torso or anywhere else of a wound that would produce that amount of crimson stain. The blood, she guessed, was Cedric’s.

Dumbledore pulled up an Ottoman stool next to Harry’s couch. Clarissa kept gently working on Harry’s face.

Albus began, hesitantly, “Harry. I hate to ask you questions right now. You have had a shocking and terrible experience. But we need to know right away what happened out there today.”

Harry looked from one to the other and sobbed, putting his head on his sleeve. Clarissa put her hand on his head and stroked his hair. “That’s alright, Harry. That’s alright. Let it out.” Clarissa’s voice was soft and melodic.

Dumbledore gazed appreciatively at her over his eyeglasses. Both waited for Harry to regain himself.

When Harry spoke again, Clarissa was struck by how young and beautiful he looked without the glasses. His eyes were more startlingly green than ever.

Harry began haltingly. “We--Cedric and I--went out for a run. . . . A long one, about 10 or 12 kilometers. Way up the lake.”

“So, you ended up off Hogwarts grounds.” Dumbledore looked at her, and at someone behind her. She turned to see that Snape was standing along the wall, hands behind him, staring straight ahead even as she turned back.

“We--we didn’t think about that,” Harry said. “We were just looking for a really good, long course . . .  with the views. . . .”

“Did the two of you discuss your run with anyone beforehand?” Clarissa asked.

Harry shook his head no.

She pressed him, gently, still working on a deep cut on his face. “Did you discuss it at breakfast? Or on the grounds?”

Harry looked puzzled, trying to remember. “We--we must have discussed it last night at the dance. Yeah, we did. I know it.”

Dumbledore interjected this time. “Do you remember if anyone could have overheard you, Harry?”

Harry shook his head. “I have no idea exactly when or where we talked. Probably . . . while we were scarfing down sandwiches! Yeah, that’s right. Cedric joked we’d need a long run to burn them off.”

Dumbledore nodded. “Alright. I understand. Please continue.”

“We had just gone past the turnaround. We had an excellent pace going. Cedric was really pushing me and it felt great . . . when we came upon a withered-looking old man. He startled us, as he hadn’t been there the first time we went by, only minutes earlier. He was sitting on a rock next to the trail.”

Dumbledore nodded. Clarissa had finished washing Harry’s cuts and he paused as she placed a bandage onto his face.

He continued, “We kind of nodded at the man to be friendly but I felt this terrific, blinding pain all of a sudden--”

“Your scar,” said Snape.

“Yeah, my scar started to hurt horribly.” Harry looked balefully at Snape as he spoke. “It was like an ax to my head. I could barely see. But I did see--I saw--I saw--” Harry struggled to finish. He took a deep breath to slow himself. “I saw a giant snake come slithering out from underneath this old fellow’s robes. Like it came out of the rock he was sitting on. Huge snake. Cedric stopped and just stared at it. And then--and then--it struck him. Right in the neck, and he fell down.”

Harry put his head in his hands. Clarissa rubbed his hair on the back of his head. Snape gazed at Harry with wide, flat black eyes.

Dumbledore said, very quietly, “I believe Cedric’s neck was broken immediately. But the poison is also terrible . . . and the blood loss.”

Harry breathed in very deeply and continued. “I grabbed my wand, and the ‘old man,’ or so I thought he was, stood up huge and tall, towering over me. He was horrible. Shadowy--he reminded me a bit of a dementor, only he was pale-shadowy. He had a long, thin face. His eyes--were horrible greenish slits. And he hissed, exactly like a snake.”

Dumbledore and Snape exchanged glances.

“Go on, Harry,” said Dumbledore, gently.

“He screamed, hissed at me. Said my name, and uttered a stream of words I couldn’t understand much, only bits. It was actually more like a lot of voices at once. Then I heard him say my name.” Harry clutched at his forehead as he spoke. “He said, ‘Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived! It is now time for you to die!’ And he screamed the killing curse.” Harry shuddered.

Clarissa had been listening, rapt, and now clutched Harry’s arm.

He went on, looking at each of them. “But right then, this bubble . . . a Patronus . . . formed around me.” Harry started to sob, his head on his knees.

Snape abruptly turned his back to the room, and walked over to the window which framed a sunset sky.

Dumbledore and Clarissa waited as Harry’s cries gradually wracked him less and less, but it took several minutes for him to continue speaking.

Finally he managed, shakily: “The Patronus was a doe! It was my mother’s!” He turned to face Dumbledore directly. “But how, Sir? How? How did she know I needed help? How can she . . .”

Dumbledore’s eyebrows shot up but he said nothing. He merely looked amazed in response to Harry’s assertion.

Harry looked at Clarissa and Dumbledore; Snape remained facing out. “You do know what this means! Voldemort is back! He’s back! And my mother--again--she protected me from him!”

“Are you sure it was Lily’s charm, Harry?” said Clarissa.

“I know I saw a doe,” he said, wiping his nose with the back of his arm. Clarissa offered him a clean towel for his face.

“I believe you, Harry,” said Dumbledore quietly.

Harry relayed that after the charm formed around him, he blacked out; the next thing he knew, he was being held up by Professor McGonagall and Hagrid, as they carried him up the slope to the castle.

Clarissa could see the boy was completely worn out. “Headmaster, I insist that Harry get some rest now. Let’s get him to his room.”

“Yes,” Dumbledore replied. “I agree, he needs a rest.”

 

Minerva was called to the study; she brought Ron and Neville to help Harry to bed. She ordered soup and crackers from the kitchen to be delivered to the boys’ room.

 

Minerva now took charge of her weary colleagues. “Please, you will all come to my quarters for a cuppa, some dinner, and to sit and chat.”

Clarissa craved  privacy, but the idea of communing in Minerva’s cozy rooms held distinct appeal. She took Minerva’s extended hand; Dumbledore and Snape obediently trooped out of the study side by side, following the paired women downstairs, and then up again.

Inside the Gryffindor Head of House Suite, Clarissa shivered slightly and realized she was still in her tights and exercise pullover. The day had been warm; but evening had fallen, and with sweaty clothes that had mostly dried still clinging to her, she felt chilled.

“Minerva, I am really not fit to be anyone’s company right now. My hair, my clothes are awful from my exercise. I should go up--”

“Clarissa, dear, please feel free to go through to my bedroom and find the bath. Everything you need is there.”

Clarissa obeyed. She walked past Minerva’s bed piled high with pillows (and topped by a sleeping, fat, grey-striped cat). Draped at the end of the bed were pink lounging pyjamas and a matching robe. She stepped into the plush, paisley-patterned bathroom to find a steaming bath.

“What a good old witch,” Clarissa murmured. She peeled off her clammy running togs and dipped into the perfectly heated tub. Hot water. A miracle of restoration, always. In the private space of this tiny, steaming sanctuary, she relaxed completely. Soon the tears flowed. Cedric lying on the stretcher dominated the landscape of her mind, as well as the image of Harry, bereft as she stroked his hair. . . .

She remained in the hot water until she felt sufficiently warmed, then toweled off and dressed. Minerva had conjured up lounge clothes in exactly Clarissa’s size--but the ruffles were a bit more Minerva’s taste. Self-conscious of the rather flamboyant outfit, she walked out into the sitting parlour.

“Ah, that’s better, isn’t it?” Minerva beamed up at her from the plush grey velvet sofa.

“Absolutely wonderful, Minerva, thank you.” Gazing around, she saw Dumbledore was seated in a white feathery-looking easy chair, legs crossed, flipping pages in a glossy magazine. Over his glasses, he gave Clarissa an approving smile. Minerva sat surrounded by pillows, stroking the cat. Snape was standing at a window with his back to the room, hands held behind him.

Clarissa smiled, thinking what a strange surrogate family she had acquired at Hogwarts.

“Let’s eat, shall we?” Minerva led the way to the adjoining dining area. Turning from the window with a vacant expression, Snape stared at Clarissa. His eyebrows shot up.

“What is it, Severus?” she said playfully, lifting her arms out to let swirls of ruffled material flow. “Don’t you approve of pink?”

His expression became vacant again as he glided across the room.

The gathered group ate a simple dinner delivered by Dobby. Clarissa was grateful for their calming, sedate energy in the wake of the traumatic afternoon. Ministry gossip, student romances, and other such frivolities filled the mealtime. Snape’s eyes remained flat and black. He ate sparingly and slowly, and said little.

After they finished eating, they retired with tea and cake to the plump parlour furniture. Snape took only tea, though Minerva tittered at him in protest.

“Severus, you hardly touched the dinner. Some cake would help fill you up,” she coaxed.

Snape shook his head absently.

Dumbledore revisited the topic of the boys’ ordeal. “It has been a dreadful day, indeed.” He sipped the tea and set the cup down to attend to the cake which he had balanced on his  knee.

“So, how did you all find out the attack had occurred?” Clarissa wondered.

Snape looked expectantly at Dumbledore, who took several moments before speaking. “It was Fawkes. He has always been keenly able to sense any danger on our grounds and had flown down over the water to check on the boys. He saw the fighting between Harry and Voldemort.” Fawkes had brought word to Dumbledore, who sent Buckbeak to pick up Harry and the body of Cedric Diggory. Harry had held Cedric’s body tightly to his own while clinging to Buckbeak’s neck; Clarissa shivered at the vision now painted in her mind’s eye of how Harry’s shirt had become blood-soaked. Yet Harry had retained no memory of this part of the journey; she understood all too well why the mind would block such an experience.

Alerted by Dumbledore, teachers and some students had hastily made their way to the fields near the castle. Clarissa had seen the formation approach the castle from that point.

Snape looked sad and tired as he spoke. “Headmaster, Minerva, Miss Black--we are under attack. In a whole new way. Lord Voldemort is corporeal again and . . . he is bold enough to come very close to our grounds.”

“Should we alert the parents, Albus?” queried Minerva.

Dumbledore paused and sighed before speaking. “Of course we must. I will have to think on the best way. But I do believe we will be cancelling the Triwizard Tournament. Under the circumstances--”

“Absolutely correct, Albus,” intoned Minerva.

Clarissa nodded. “And we’ll need to alert the Order.” Out of the corner of her eye she saw Snape pull a palm-sized rectangle of worn parchment from his pocket. Had she seen him glancing at this in the Three Broomsticks?

Dumbledore nodded. “Indeed. I have already sent word. To Sirius as well. May we use 12 Grimmauld Place tomorrow night?”

Her eyes widened. “Already sent word? How did you know where to contact Sirius?”

Dumbledore said gently, “Sirius corresponds with me from time to time.”

Clarissa stared at Dumbledore. Bloody hell. Why would Sirius be in touch with Dumbledore? And not tell her?

She spoke with reserve. “Of course the meeting can be at Grimmauld Place.” A new idea suddenly struck her. “I haven’t seen Nathan Easterly all day. Where has he been? Has anyone seen him?”

Dumbledore and Snape exchanged glances.

Minerva looked perturbed. “When the boys were--were being brought up to the castle, everyone came out to help, or at least to gawk. But he--he was nowhere to be found, Clarissa!”

“Well, did he go off grounds for the weekend, perhaps?” Clarissa queried.

Again Snape and Dumbledore looked at one another grimly.

Snape responded. “The fact is, Mr. Easterly . . . is upstairs in his quarters at the moment.”

“You mean--he was here? The whole time? And just stayed in his rooms?”

Dumbledore shrugged. Snape looked blank. Minerva gave a brisk “Tsk, tsk, tsk.”

Dumbledore said merely, “We have no idea where he was earlier today. But his absence from my faculty summons is very strange.”

Clarissa’s ire was definitely raised by the image of Easterly avoiding the call to help with injured students while holing up in his comfy quarters.

“Clarissa, there is one more thing we need to discuss with you,” Dumbledore said, again looking at Severus as he spoke.

“Yes, Headmaster?”

“You were out flying in the Forbidden Forest this afternoon?”

“Well, of course I was. I do it practically daily. And I hike. Or run.”

Minerva gasped lightly and gave another “Tsk, tsk.”

Dumbledore shook his head.

Snape’s stern voice cut in sharply. “Don’t. Do it. Anymore.”

She looked again with wide eyes at him, and then back to Dumbledore.

“We are quite concerned about this habit of flying alone, so far afield. You know, you yourself were open to attack today, same as the boys.”

She laughed. It was hard to imagine anyone catching her on a broom, and she said so. But she admitted she also walked or ran some of the time. “I realize that my behavior is risky. But why would Voldemort want to attack me?”

“Why wouldn’t he?” countered Snape.

“I just don’t see--” but she stopped protesting. She knew she was unable to defend her position on this. After Azkaban, her life at Hogwarts had felt like such a haven. For the most part.

Wearily, Clarissa said only, “I understand. I will avoid going out alone.” It wasn’t exactly a promise not to, but she acted the part of the dutiful junior colleague.

The men nodded slowly and gravely at her.

Minerva had gone to a window to gaze out at the waning sunset evening. Suddenly, she let out a crying shriek, pointing out and upwards.

The other teachers jumped up to see where she was indicating. To the north, in the darkening sky, a gigantic smudged face marred the beauty of nightfall. It looked almost like storm clouds, shaded dark green, but was far more sinister. The dark face grinned maniacally.

“The Dark Mark,” Snape said slowly. “Voldemort’s sign to everyone that he has been here, and has killed.” Snape absently rubbed his inner left forearm.

 

“Sirius, what the bloody hell?” she asked him at the mirror, just before going to bed. Her second pour was in her hand, nearly finished. “When were you in touch with Dumbledore? Why did you not tell me? Next you’ll be telling me the three of you brought me here so you could keep _me_ under observation!”

“What are you talking about?” Sirius seemed wary of his sister’s wild tone. “And how many of those have you had tonight, anyway?”

“Nevermind. How many have _you_ had today? Or have you lost count?” Her voice was acidic.

“Let’s just calm down--”

“ _Fuck_ that. Calm down? Sirius, this is insanity! I have half a mind to get the hell out of here tonight and hop the first portkey for the Rhodope Mountains. This place seems far from safe! And why is Snape alerting _you_ about a meeting at our house?”

“Don’t you think I was more than a little surprised that _Severus_ sent me an owl about a tragedy today?” His voice was gentle, but contained an accusation.

Clarissa had not thought of how odd _that_ must have been for her brother. She sighed. It was hard enough dealing with life as it was presented to her, without having to keep Sirius up to date. . . . Funny. After all those years of having to put him first, or else lose him, today Sirius had been the last person on her mind.

“I’m--I’m sorry, Sirius.” She drank. And repoured.

“Clarissa, just calm down a second. And take it easy there on the Scotch.”

She fumed, and drained the repour.

“Don’t you think I feel terrible for sending you into a pressure cooker? I hate seeing this assignment stress you out like this. That wasn’t the idea. And now, the danger is very real. Voldemort is back.”

“Do you think the attack has any connection to last night? What I saw between Snape and Easterly? And now, a boy is dead?”

“Very nearly two dead. It makes perfect sense. Yes, there is something there. . . .”

“But Snape was . . . he seemed . . . so saddened by Cedric’s death. And he carried him back.” The poignant image of the stretcher being held up by Snape’s black-cloaked figure filled her mind. His pallid face had been plainly filled with grief.

“How could you tell what he really felt? How do you know that in fact Snape was not helping Voldemort out there? Maybe he’s even an animagus: how about a giant snake? His name would certainly fit.”

“But what about Easterly? Where was he? He might’ve been the one informing Voldemort of the boys’ plans. After all, he could have easily overheard them at the dance.”

“So could Snape.”

She had to admit he was right.

“Don’t get lulled into a false sense of security, my dear,” were Sirius’s last words of the night to her.

“See you tomorrow night at Ye Olde Homestead,” she returned. “I’ll bring a fresh bottle.”

Sirius grimaced, then offered a wan smile.

 

That night was Clarissa’s worst since leaving Azkaban. Horrifying pictures and sensations swirled in and out of her tortured sleep.

_No, no, not Sirius! He can’t be dead. He can’t be dead._

_Look at him, look closely, Clarissa, it is your dead brother. He took his own life. You could do nothing to prevent it! You are helpless here. And now, you’re alone. . . ._

_Keep them out keep them out. Bastards. This is how they will get you. Keep them out. Close your mind, close it, she repeated over and over._

_Keep your mind closed._

_He’s not dead, he must not be dead. They are trying to make you crazy, make you believe you are all alone here._

_Stop, no good. Keep them OUT, keep them OUT_

_Dark, freezing cold shapes pressing, pressing, hurting her head, her chest_

_Sirius. Sirius. Just keep thinking of Sirius. He will pick up your thread_

_Sirius answer me_

_Don’t open up for them_

_Send a thread to Sirius only Sirius are you there?_

_What is that laughter? My god, what is that?_

_Horrible, high-pitched screeching laughter . . . a razor across her brain_

_Clarissa Black, you will not win. You cannot win. Your beloved brother is dead, he is dead dead cold drying dead and you are alone here, all alone except for me, and now I will be with you for all time and there will be no more warmth or wetness only dry cold bitter touch of me inside you filling you with dry dry deathly cold You are dry, dry, dusty and cold, Clarrisssssa_

_More laughter screeching and cold cold cold everything gone dead inside her_

 

 


	9. The Turn Towards Fall

Grimmauld Place felt just like it sounded to Clarissa, as she arrived in London by portkey the next evening.

“A grim old place,” she remarked aloud, from the dreary, darkened foyer. Layers of dust coated the family tree tapestry on the wall in the adjacent hallway. Family members peered out of the fabric at her, ghost-like. At least, the ones who weren’t blasted clean out of the picture by Walburga the Crazed, she thought bleakly. Her mother had the nasty habit of ridding the family tree wall-hanging of family members who had fallen out of her favor, including both Sirius and herself.

Others were already assembling around the long kitchen table. Kreacher had set out an odd assortment of cups, glasses, and jelly jars along with a dusty bottle of Auchentoshan that had a scant drink or two left in the bottom. Clarissa held up a fresh bottle.

“Welcome to 12 Grimmauld Place! Proudly serving the Black Family Liquor since 1249,” she said, laughing, setting it on the table.

Kreacher grumbled at her in his hoarse voice, “Evenin’ Miss,” before he padded back to his cramped abode under the stairs.

Remus Lupin said, “Hit me, Clarissa! I would hate to defy tradition.” She poured.

Nymphadora Tonks also took a glass. Clarissa sat next to her, and gave her a warm hug. “Cousin Tonks! How are you!” Clarissa was perfectly aware of how much Nymphadora--the daughter of their favourite cousin, Andromeda--hated to be called by her given name.

Three Weasleys--Molly, Arthur, and son Bill--greeted Clarissa warmly and took drinks as they were passed around.

Kingsley Shacklebolt, Mad-Eye Moody, Mundungus Fletcher, and Snape each declined a drink. Mundungus, known to imbibe heavily and often, conceded he was badly hung over. Mad-Eye just shook his head. “I never drink when I have to portkey out. It’ll make me sick.”

Moody’s roving eye perused the table as Clarissa sat down to her whisky. He asked, “Where’s Dumbledore? Late arriving?”

Snape cleared his throat. “Albus Dumbledore has told me to report that he regrets very much he will be unable to meet with the Order tonight. An emergency meeting with Fudge in the Ministry of Magic is keeping him . . . away at the moment.”

Arthur spoke up. “Surely, about the flap over Harry seeing Voldemort. Many in the Ministry don’t want to face the music. They’re calling Harry daft and of course, lumping Dumbledore right in with him.” Arthur grunted and shook his head, then took a long drought of the whisky.

“Right. Well, I guess I will get us started then.” Sirius stood up at the end of the long table, hands held behind his back.

Snape glared over the stack of papers he had assembled in front of him. “Sirius, I am quite prepared to lead tonight’s--”

“The hell you will, Snape,” grumbled Sirius. “This is _my_ house. I will lead this gathering.”

Snape set the paper’s down. “As a practical matter, I don’t think you--”

“I have sacrificed most of the last twelve years of my life to this cause, Snape. What have you done? Prepared your lessons! And sipped your nightly cocktails!”

“Sirius, I concur this is your _family’s_ house.” He looked across at Clarissa. “But when it comes to furnishing meaningful intelligence about the lives at Hogwarts school, I doubt that your recent experience as a fugitive from the law will give you much to contribute.”

“In which case, I will call upon my sister, your esteemed colleague, for her insight. And at the appropriate time you may offer your Hogwarts report, Snape.” Sirius said the name with mock sweetness.

Clarissa sighed, eliciting a frazzled, fiery look from Sirius. She wished the two men would bypass the pissing contest and get on with it. As it was, the meeting was lengthy and tedious. Much of it was spent catching the members up on the events of yesterday. While Sirius considered himself in charge, it was Snape who in fact had the most useful information. Somewhat to Clarissa’s amusement, Sirius tried to insert numerous questions during Snape’s recital--queries that she felt were manufactured for the appearance of his leadership.

At two points during the meeting Snape reached into his pocket and glanced at the rectangular, flat object she had glimpsed at Minerva’s, and before, at the pub.

When the issue of Easterly’s absence came up, everybody had their pet theories of what it meant.

“Never trusted that Easterly myself,” threw out Mad-Eye. “Not sure he was properly vetted. I know my office was not contacted to do the work. Dumbledore really needs to be more careful about these Hogwarts hires.” There was an awkward pause as the members glanced at both Snape and Clarissa. “Present company excepted, of course,” Mad-Eye put in hastily.

Snape spoke slowly. “I am keeping a close eye on the situation with Nathan Easterly. Dumbledore is aware of my concerns.”

Mundungus Fletcher had been quiet throughout the entire meeting but now spoke up. “Well, I’ll approach Mr. Snape on a matter related to the attack on these boys. When was the last time you and Lord Voldemort chatted privately about school life, Snape? How much are you not telling us here?” Mundungus, who was seated to Snape’s left, fingered the inner forearm of the former Death Eater. No other member of the Order was brash enough--or perhaps foolish enough--to question Snape directly regarding his allegiances. Not even Sirius.

Snape turned slowly to eye him with flat black orbs. Clarissa hoped he wasn’t about to turn Fletcher into a tree frog. His deep, resonant voice dripped disdain. “Mundungus . . . I am certain you have the good of the Order at heart now, as always.  I assure you, I remain . . . an enemy to Voldemort. My role as a Death Eater is highly useful to Dumbledore. I intend to keep . . . Dumbledore’s faith. Yours, on the other hand--I can afford not to give a _damn_ about.”

Mundungus merely grunted and said he’d have a small pour after all. “A little hair of the dog, you know,” as he winked at Clarissa and drank it down.

Sirius leaned back, head cocked to one side eying this display intently. When he saw Clarissa watching him, he smiled faintly and raised his brows at her a couple of times. His eyes were merry.

Everyone agreed that the Order would need a plan for fighting Voldemort. Surely he would strike again. They debated multiple options for the long-term protection of Harry and the rest of the student body. Bill Weasley floated the idea that they go on the offensive; several members of the Order began to talk at once in response.

Clarissa tried to speak up at this point, asking for quiet, then waiting, rather like she did every day in the classroom. Finally, she offered, “We need to bring Harry into the decision-making process. After all, this directly concerns his life. I know he can’t officially be in the Order yet. But he must be consulted and his desires taken into account.”

Molly Weasley disagreed. “Clarissa, dear, I cannot go along with your suggestion, ultimately. It is our job to protect Harry. He is just a boy. He needs to concentrate on his schooling--not how to go about fighting Death Eaters and the Dark Lord.”

Clarissa smiled and conceded that she herself had used the exact phrase, “just a boy,” not too long ago about Harry. “He needs to know the adults around him _actively_ care,” she implored. Several people around the table shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Now her voice rang out with clear passion. Color rose in her cheeks. “But Molly, Harry cannot be kept in the dark. Yes. He is _just_ a boy and needs our support and protection. But he won’t be a boy for much longer. And as he is directly involved here, we should ask his opinion about how the fight goes forward. Harry does not benefit from the adults in his life keeping pertinent information from him. It makes him feel--terribly alienated.”

Sirius surveyed his sister with admiration. “Hear, hear, Clarissa.”

Lupin and Tonks nodded their approval, as did Mad-Eye, Arthur, Bill, and Shacklebolt. Molly’s lips formed a tight line. Snape gazed at Clarissa briefly then sifted through his notes again.

 

“You will portkey back to Hogsmeade, Clarissa?” Snape inquired, as the meeting adjourned, with another scheduled for a fortnight later.

“Yes. I’ll come out at the Broomsticks.”

He nodded slowly. “I will be right behind you. Please, will you wait for me there so we may walk back to the castle together?” Seeing her look of surprise, he added, “Simple precaution.”

While she instinctively chafed under his offer of protection, she knew he was right. Besides, it would be a good chance to get to know him better. She hadn’t been alone with him since Friday night at the pub, before Easterly had joined them. Sirius threw his sister a warning glance as they walked out of 12 Grimmauld Place together.

 

After the portkey, she had to admit that Mad-Eye was wise to avoid drinking prior to this particular travel method. She felt a bit peaky as she waited for Snape to come through.

He was soon alongside her.

“Ready?” he said, motioning toward the road leading to the castle.

“Actually, I’m feeling a little--off,” she said. “A bubbly water would taste nice.” She motioned towards the pub with her head.

“Fine,” said Snape.

Inside, they were shown to the same table as before.

Rosmerta brought the drink order. “Seltzer for the lady. I added a little lemongrass and mint, dearie. Plain water for the gentleman.”

Clarissa thanked her. She sipped and began to feel better almost immediately. Her head cleared a little.

Snape drank and set the glass back down. “You were very outspoken tonight on the point of involving our young charge in the plans.” He looked about them warily, but the pub appeared to be deserted. “I was amazed to hear anyone counter Molly Weasley with such conviction. You know,” he said, “I do believe Mrs. Weasley considers herself the only proper authority on the care and protection of Harry Potter.” Snape’s eyes flashed from flat black to warm golden brown as he spoke.

“Well. Molly’s heart is certainly in the right place when it comes to Harry. I just think we all need to recognize that his role in this warrants him _some_ privileges. He’s a boy, but he’s been put in an exceptionally adult position. However, he can’t do it on his own. None of us can.”

Snape was staring intently at Clarissa. She was wary. “What is it? Why are you looking at me like that?”

He shrugged and smiled very faintly, the typical stiffness of his posture less rigid. “Are you feeling better?”

“I--I am, thanks. Just rather--tired out. This stuff is doing the trick.” Rather tired was an understatement. She was exhausted after the night of haunted Azkaban visions.

He said simply, “It was a difficult night for sleep.”

Clarissa’s immediate thought was to put her shields up. How could he know? --But maybe he was just making an observation about his own state of mind. She wondered how to answer him, then found herself tearing up. “Oh, yesterday was a lot to process, certainly. . . . Something really touched a nerve. Cedric . . . His death brought up a lot of terrible memories.” She looked down at the table but immediately felt tears welling, threatening to spill over. She looked to the ceiling in an effort to stem their flow, and wanted to believe that her reaction had to be more about Cedric than about Azkaban. The death of a student was tragic; prison was, by now, simply The Thing She Had Endured.

Severus Snape sat quietly observing her. She recovered herself enough to look at him again, and felt a sense of his clear, calm energy. Something about him is very pure, she thought. Sitting before her was a different man from the uptight, grim person she saw striding about the school corridors. Different from the fuming, impatient Snape tolerating the logistics of the Order meeting, or fussing over some missing Gillyweed.

Finally he broke the silence. “Azkaban, from what I hear, is . . . a living nightmare. In comparison, I’ve had a . . . comfortable situation. Even the life of a double agent has distinct material advantages.” A cloud passed over his face.

She felt sure that Severus Snape’s life at Hogwarts could only be considered materially comfortable; plenty must keep him in inner turmoil. Why else would he be such a bully in the classroom? Why else would he live so much like a hermit, being close to just one colleague? What else could explain such sharply drawn versions of one person? She thought again of his arm at her back during the waltz.

Clarissa’s reverie was broken by seeing Severus check his pocket--again, as she had done earlier. His right pocket. She was tempted to ask him what he was doing but thought better of it. So, you’ve deduced so far that the man has a strange, calming influence on you and that he is right handed. And is perhaps brown-eyed.

Rosmerta came back to the table. “Will you two lovelies be having anything else?”

Clarissa was tempted to say she’d have something stronger before they walked home, but she knew it was late. “Well, I’d indulge in a real drink if you want to have one, too,” she said, a tad hopeful.

Snape shook his head. “I can’t drink this late.” His gaze was searching.

She shook her head at Rosmerta. “Nothing more, thanks.”

Snape handed Rosmerta a few sickle coins and stood. He pulled Clarissa’s chair out, helping her up, placing an arm at her back and leading her out with his other hand.

They walked slowly to the edge of town and up the wooded path around Black Lake. The night was mild and the crescent moon in evidence at the Equinox Ball shone bigger, brighter.

“The moon . . . is waxing,” Snape commented. His leather shoes made a gentle crunching sound on the gravel road.

As they walked side by side, glimmers of the lake slid in and out of the trees. Seeing the water reminded her about a tragic incident after she left Hogwarts, while she was interning at the Ministry. A young school librarian named Madeline Creech had drowned herself in that lake. Clarissa hadn’t thought about Miss Creech’s death in ages, and at the time, it hadn’t made a terribly big impression on her, other than the fact that it was sad. Around the offices, Madeline Creech quickly became a source of ghostly, gossipy tales of lost love and madness. Very soon after Madeline’s death Clarissa left her position to travel and to study abroad.

“Yes. The moonlight is so pretty.” She paused. “I love this time of year.”

“What do you love about it?”

“Oh,” she contemplated a moment. “I love the weather now, I suppose. The fullness of late summer and the turn towards fall. This is the time of year when everything feels most ripe, most magically alive.” She laughed. “I suppose I’m using ‘magical’ in the Muggle sense of the word! Or maybe the poetic sense.”

He smiled. “And you love being out-of-doors. I imagine this is a wonderful time of year for it. Not being able to go to the forest will be difficult. I suppose you could still train, closer to the castle.”

She grimaced. “Yes. But I will miss the woods. . . . What do others around here do to stay balanced? What do you do? For exercise?”

“Oh, I walk the castle and grounds a great deal. Often with Albus.” He continued, “But we merely stroll. You know, I was never an athlete, like you. I have always been bookish.”

Clarissa conceded she was glad for her competitive background, mainly because it gave her a lifelong love of exercise. “Even in Azkaban, I ran in place, or up and down the small staircase next to my cell. Aerobic fitness is very important for health.” And sanity, she thought.

“You sound like Minerva. She loves her brisk walks and is always telling me I need to get out of doors more often. Actually, this is her favourite place to do her walking. Up and down this stretch of road.”

Clarissa smiled thinking of a couple of times she and Minerva had crossed paths when Clarissa was en route to the woods. “Minerva makes good time for an older person! I wonder if she has trainers on under those long getups.”

Snape laughed lightly. “Probably.”

“Oh! Just look at that!” Clarissa paused to look out over the lake. Snape did likewise. They had just come round the final turn before the castle gates.

“How beautiful,” she said. The moonlight was rippling on the water below them. Tall pines on either side of them framed the scene.

“Yes,” Snape agreed. “Beautiful.”

She stood quite close to him and turned back to see him smiling. His pale, sharp features in profile were plainly illuminated, contrasted by his long dark hair shining blue-black in the silvery light.

Both watched the moonlight on water for a few minutes more. She broke the spell of the moment to say, “Severus, it has been a pleasure to talk to you. Thank you for seeing me home.”

They walked into the castle gates side by side. Snape turned, bowed to her--then each walked to their separate staircases.

 

Snape said a soft goodnight to Lily, and set her picture next to the bed. He opened his parchment map to see that Harry was in his quarters, unmoving. He set the palm-sized locator on the bedside table. It read: _Scotland. Hogwarts Castle, Gryffindor Suite. With Ron Weasley, Neville Longbottom, Dean Thomas and  Seamus Finnigan_. The locator would chime softly, as it always did through the night, every hour. All was in order.

He sat down on the bed to remove his scuffed black leather shoes, and peeled black socks away from tired feet. He placed the shoes side by side under the bed and tossed the socks into the basket which would be collected by the house elf laundry service the next morning. He removed his cape and hung it on a wall hook. Next came the long black tunic; carefully he unbuttoned cuffs, then the collar. This painstaking process was completed slowly and methodically, until enough buttons were undone to allow him to peel the costume up over his head like an animal shedding its skin. He placed the stiff black garment on a wooden clothes rack. Finally, he unbuttoned the long, white, stiffly starched shirt that formed the base layer of his ensemble and placed that in the basket. His skin beneath these layers was starkly pale and smooth. He walked to the bathroom and washed. Then Severus Snape climbed into the cool bed and flicked off the lights with a sigh.

He must still complete the last step before rest: the continued, painstaking construction of prayers of adoration for Lord Voldemort’s consumption. He settled himself and opened the channel.

_My Lord, I have nothing with which to compare the life that I have gained with you, the consummate Prince of Darkness, the most beautiful and pure source of evil. Through you, all horrors are possible. Through you, all other beings are lessened. But as I place myself within your power, I am raised up as part of you. I will always be grateful for the clarity that comes from service to your ultimate evil. . . ._

He felt Voldemort’s greedy, probing mind gratefully, voraciously consume the offering.

Snape’s sleep, never more than an hour at a time, was even more fitful than usual. A vivid dream occupied his mental landscape.

 

_Harry ran to his side. “Professor Snape! Sir! You must do something to help her! Please, or she’ll die!”_

_Snape stood at the side of Black Lake. Harry clung to his arm._

_“Sir, please! Please, help her! This--this is all your doing, Sir! You have to help!”_

_Snape looked out over the dark water with dread. He could just make out the head and waving arms of a person far out on the water._

_He walked into the lake and swam. Out and out he went and was soon far from shore. Some distance ahead of him, the head of a woman was visible. An arm waved up from the water’s dark surface.  With several more strokes, he touched a body. He fumbled under the water, found her arms, and pulled her up and over onto his back. He began to tow the inert form back to shore where Harry sat, crying, face in his hands. Now and then Harry looked up and gazed at Snape in terror._

_“Is she . . . Is she okay?” Harry called out as Snape’s feet hit the bottom. He rolled the body off his back, scooped her up in his arms and walked in through the shallows._

_He laid the body of the woman on the beach. She did not move. Her face was obscured by a mass of wet hair strewn with strands of seaweed. Just as Snape reached to clear the hair away from the immobile face, the locator chimed the hour. He jerked awake, upright in bed._

 

 


	10. To the Man

Harry practically skipped over to where Ron and Hermione were playing giant-square chess on the commons on a brilliant sunshine lit Wednesday afternoon. Classes were done for the day and by some miracle, there had been almost no homework assigned for that night. Snape had been uncharacteristically mellow of late and all of his classes seemed to be reaping the benefit. Nothing school-related would require their time or energy until after dinner--and then it was a few simple prediction spells for Ms. Trelawney’s Divination class, and a short reading for Ms. Burbage’s Muggle Studies.

Harry shouted to his friends, “Let’s go! Let’s get out of here! We haven’t seen Hagrid in ages!”

The trio fairly flew along the downhill path to Hagrid’s hut. Summer had not yet given way to Fall on this late September afternoon. Every shade of lush green seemed to pop vibrantly from the wooded hillsides. The sun on the lake shimmered like silk. Deep afternoon purples started to emerge from the shadowy valleys.

Hagrid’s hut beckoned as they tumbled their way across the path.

“’Allo! Hagrid!” They banged on the door.

“C’m in! C’m in!” came the booming voice within.

They swung the door open. Hagrid was at his table, feeding a rather sprawling, squirming, scaly, four-legged creature with giant feet and long talons: a baby Norwegian Ridgeback.

Harry walked gingerly over to see. “Hagrid, fantastic! How old is he?”

“She. Milly’s a week and a day,” he said beaming proudly. “She’s a real beauty, in’ she?”

Each of the three wanted to hold her and pet her, but Hagrid kept them at arm’s length. “No, no. I wish I could let you. But she’s still too young. And even a Norwegian ’Back can be unpredictable.”

“Are you _sure_ it’s Milly, Hagrid? Not _Miles_? Remember what happened with Norberta!” Hermione gave Hagrid an exasperated look.

Harry, Ron and Hermione had to content themselves with watching Hagrid feed her which was rather entertaining, on its own. Milly was a terribly messy eater and flapped her wings at ever-changing angles as she suckled.

“Y’know, there would be three. She were to have two sisters or brothers, but two of me eggs got eaten.” Hagrid hung his head. "And I nearly lost Milly here, too, when she was an egg.” Hagrid looked angry and motioned for the kids to move in closer, while Milly continued to slurp milk, the sides of her mouth all afroth. “If ya ask me, that new bloke Dumbledore’s got in for Dark Arts--he’s a wrong ’un.”

Harry looked puzzled. “Easterly? What about him?”

“That teacher . . . he come ’round here, askin’ me questions about me animals, and they, they acted mighty strange-like. Fang let out little yips and howls, and bared his teeth at him--and I ne’er seen that outta Fang before.” Now Hagrid motioned towards the birdcage containing a handful of colourful parakeets. “The budgies hopped like mad . . . and it weren’t too many days after his visit, I noticed two of me dragon eggs was gone! That’s when I brought Milly here indoors.

“Just trust me on this,” Hagrid said emphatically. “I don’t know what he is, but he’s a wrong ’un!” He cuddled the spiny baby dragon and patted her head.

Hermione looked thoughtful. “He does seem strange, somehow. A little . . . disconnected when he talks. I don’t think he ever looks you right in the eye. I don’t like it.”

Harry offered, “Whenever I’m around him, my scar kind of aches. I didn’t notice it much at first because I have class with Easterly right after Potions. I figured I was just in a bad mood whenever I went to DDA!”

Hermione looked puzzled. “Being around Snape makes your scar ache?”

Harry’s face fell a little. “Not much. No, but . . . It would make sense if it did.”

Hermione shook her head. “Harry, you know Dumbledore trusts him. And Snape hasn’t been so bad lately.” Hermione’s words were drowned out by a horrible, high-pitched sccrreeeech from Milly as the empty bottle left her mouth. But as soon as the fresh bottle was inserted, the room was restored to relative quiet.  Not that Hagrid’s hut was ever fully peaceful, with the chitterings of caged birds and the reverberating snores of Fang from the corner.

Ron snickered a little. “Maybe Snape is reliving his dance with Ms. Black. She was . . . really something that night.” Ron stared off with a crooked half-smile.

Harry ribbed Ron. “C’mon, mate. Get hold of yourself. Y’know, Easterly also had quite a few with her. And Karkaroff. And Draco gave it his best shot!” They all laughed. “But she did seem to like dancing with Professor Snape.” Harry shook his head.

Hermione looked at the boys with a great deal of pity. “Looks aren’t everything, gentleman. A woman needs _more_ than a pretty face! Snape is an excellent dancer, is highly intelligent, and I bet once you get to know him--”

“He’s _worse_! I bet he’s much, much worse!” Ron practically shouted.

Hermione just shook her head. “Men,” she said, with disdain.

Harry and Ron looked at each other, bewildered.

Hagrid had placed the baby dragon in an open drawer lined with soft rags and turned back to the children. “But how are you doing, Harry?”

“I’m okay, Hagrid, thanks.” He paused. “Dumbledore has had me in to see him and I’ve had some letters from Sirius.” He looked brighter as he related these details. “He might stop in at the Founder’s Day Picnic this Saturday. As Padfoot, of course.”

Ron’s, Hermione’s and Hagrid’s faces brightened as well.

Harry sat up a straight all of a sudden. “Y’know what, guys? I think it may have been Easterly who gave Cedric and me the bad Gillyweed. Hagrid, you got me thinking about him.”

Hagrid looked at Harry with his head cocked to one side. “What d’ya mean?”

Harry’s face became animated. “Well . . . the day before the underwater training exercises, Cedric and I went to the dungeon to look in the Potions stores for some Gillyweed. We knew Snape had it. And we didn’t think he would just give it to us. Only, when we got there, we couldn’t remember which kind was the right one for water. Then we thought we heard someone coming and we left. Without any of the plant.

“But after DDA class later, I saw Cedric talking with Easterly. I wasn’t really paying attention. I was writing notes from the board.” As Harry continued to speak his words got faster and faster, as if he were more and more confident in what he was asserting. “Later that night when I mentioned to Cedric we needed to find a way to get the right Gillyweed from storage, Cedric was smug . . . but only said, ‘Don’t worry about it. We’re covered, mate.’”

Hermione shook her head. “That doesn’t prove Easterly gave Cedric the wrong Gillyweed.”

“Yeah, but now that Cedric is dead, we’ll never know, will we?” said Harry. Ron let out a low whistle as Hagrid nodded soberly.

 

Severus Snape stood tall, wine glass in hand. “To the man of the hour. A man--again! And the world will never be the same for it!” He raised the glass high as the table of Death Eaters whistled and cheered.

Igor Karkaroff smiled broadly at his Lord and Master. “To the Man! _Na zdrave_ , Voldemort!”

Bellatrix stood and leaned toward the man of the hour, till her bosom was practically in his face. Then she leaned back and cooed, “Marvellous work out there, darling! Killing that beautiful Diggory boy! Just wonderful! She whispered close in his ear, “I know you’ll be doing good work later tonight, as well,” as she grasped his thigh under the table.

He brushed her aside and spoke in a ragged whisper. “Thank you, Severus. And thank you all, for this ovation. I assure you, my return is for the good of all loyal Death Eaters. Your work to restore me will not be forgotten.” Voldemort hoisted his glass with a direct look at Snape. As he spoke his expression flickered a bit, like a television picture that erodes but then is restored.

Lord Voldemort, corporeal again, reigned over the exultant meeting of reunited followers as he fended off Bellatrix’s public displays of affection. The night was an unqualified success.

“My beloved Death Squad, I will bid you now a fond farewell, until next time. Please, take care as you journey to your homes. Now, I will meet with only one man, Severus Snape.”

Bellatrix glared. The rest of the Death Eaters mumbled and stirred and filed slowly out of the meeting room, and out of Malfoy Mansion.

Voldemort, Nagini slithering alongside, retired to a darkly furnished den with a huge stone fireplace.

“Bella, darling, please bring us something delicious to drink,” Voldemort called.

Bella made a small exasperated noise from the meeting room. She returned several moments later, teetering on her heels, with a bottle of vermouth. A bored swirl of her wand extracted two glasses from a nearby cabinet.

“Here you are, gentlemen. I suppose I will . . . be waiting for you upstairs, darling V.” She stroked his chin as she slid out of the room, giving Snape a coolly lascivious parting stare.

Voldemort settled himself in his seat and picked up a goblet. He raised it carefully to his lips. “Severus, life is good. It is good to be a man, isn’t it?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“You have no idea . . . how wonderful this tastes to me.” He drank, sighed, and sat for some minutes with childlike delight infusing his filmy face.  Then he switched into business mode. “Severus, there are a backlog of matters I must deal with. One, Sirius Black. My intelligence sources indicate he is a threat to us. . . . He, and his sister. But for now, we need her.”

“We need . . . Clarissa Black, my Lord?”

“Indeed. She may lead us to the Elder Wand dossier. And once her brother has been removed, her power will be diminished, and our job of finding the dossier will be that much easier. Severus, did she not work with you, years ago? At the Ministry?”

“Not with me, my Lord. With Lucius.” Snape shifted his weight in his chair and sipped.

Voldemort nodded. “I know about her once being the favored toy of Lucius. Malfoy has not told me everything about that, nor about the Elder Wand file. You know, he led me to believe its loss was Clarissa’s doing; and maybe she in fact has some . . . information to offer us? You, Severus . . . must find out everything Clarissa knows about the file. I believe that what you are able to learn will prove . . . vitally interesting for our cause.”

“Yes, my lord. I have been anticipating your need. I will continue to try to read her. Her defences are extraordinary. But I am curious to know, what time frame do you foresee, with the Sirius Black matter?” Snape tried hard to keep his voice as casual as possible.

“Well, that, my friend, is certainly an interesting question.” He sipped his vermouth. “Really, it’s Bellatrix’s concern, more than mine. She has an investment in her family’s affairs. . . . Old scores to settle, I suppose. Peculiar family, those Blacks.” Now Voldemort turned his gaze slowly to Snape. “Especially the women. They seem to have a lot of . . . unfinished business.” He sipped. “Women are funny creatures, aren’t they, Severus? They are known as the _gentler_ sex.” His grin became leering, his face flickering in and out, an unstable transmission. “I prefer to wait just a bit on ending the life of Sirius Black. At least another fortnight.” He paused. “Oh, and Severus. While you attempt to read the sister: learn where Sirius is staying. Our sources have not yet gleaned this vital piece of knowledge. It will make tracking him down much simpler, when the time comes.”

He stretched his neck and sighed in contentment. “I am enjoying this stage of everlasting life, Severus. I feel there is much to be savored. You know, I can appreciate certain pleasures. The simple things. Enjoying a celebratory drink. The company of an old friend. A woman waiting in my bed.” He smiled drolly, and winked at his trusted servant.


	11. Keeping Watch

Through bites of cheese sandwich, Ron proclaimed: “Friday, mateys! It’s _Friday!_ And tomorrow should be gorgeous weather, according to Trelawney. And we have the picnic!” He sang the last part more than he said it, in a high operatic style.

Hermione looked glum. “But now we have that huuuuuge assignment to do for Snape. He sure didn’t stay in his jolly mood for long.” Even Hermione’s craving for work had its limits.

Harry likewise looked sobered by the Potions task Snape had dispensed that morning. But then he brightened. “I got an owl from Sirius! He wants me to come to the next Order meeting. I’m supposed to go with Ms. Black.” Harry radiated happiness as he informed them of his news. He suddenly glanced around, furtively. “But don’t breathe a word to anyone--it’s top secret.” Around them were mostly Gryffindor students. Draco Malfoy and his cohorts were several tables away.

“That’s great! We’re really happy for you, Harry!” said Hermione, brightly.

 

Friday night Clarissa was in her room reading but feeling restless;  she was thinking about the walk home the past Monday with Severus after the Order meeting, and how nice it would be if . . . if she went out and bumped into him again at the pub, or while just out walking--when she heard a light tapping at the door to her suite.

She opened the door to find the tall slim figure of Nathan Willis Easterly framed in the doorway.

He offered her a small bow. “Clarissa, I trust I am not disturbing you?”

“Why, Nathan. No, no, not disturbing me, really. What can I do for you?”

“Might I step in?” He batted his pretty green eyes thickly framed by dark lashes.

Clarissa motioned for him to enter. “Of course.”

 

Snape knocked at the door of the Headmaster’s Suite and heard the lightly proffered, “Entre, dear.” Severus entered.

“Severus, you are looking so well, man! Happy Friday.”

 

Easterly took a seat on the couch next to where she had been curled up with a stack of papers--the same stack she had been trying to get through for the past several nights.

“Drink?” she said to him, thinking to herself, I have to be polite. And _I’ll_ surely be having another.

“Why yes, Clarissa . . . thank you.” He took the drink she held out to him. “But I would love a cube of ice for this strong brew of yours.”

She nodded, wondering why he didn’t just conjure an ice cube; experience with wizards of his ilk had taught her, however, that some would rather ask a witch to get them something as simple as a cube of ice rather than conjure it themselves.

She went to the kitchen for the ice and handed him back his glass. Easterly’s hand brushed hers.

“Thank you so much,” he said softly, taking a drink. She observed once again that as he smiled at her sweetly, he didn’t quite make eye contact. Was it really disconcerting? It could be seen as a charming quirk, she mused.

She settled herself back on the couch with a generous, neat pour of Scotch for herself. As they talked of simple school matters, Clarissa’s eyes were drawn to the unusual cufflinks adorning Easterly’s crisp sleeves, the same ones he had worn at the dance. They were ovals with a red and black design. She cocked her head to one side, studying them more closely. So beautiful . . . The oval resembled an eye, a dark blood-red iris with a long, thin black pupil. The small jewels were rimmed in gold.

Clarissa snapped her attention back to Easterly, with some effort. “I’m sorry, what did you just say?”

Easterly was smiling, looking into her face, but not into her eyes. “I was telling you what a good girl you are, marking papers on a Friday night! I so admire your work with the students. May I see what you’ve given them to do for this assignment?” He reached out, brushing her cheek gently.

Clarissa laughed lightly. “Oh, sure . . . but it’s not so fascinating. A basic close reading analysis of a set of Celtic runes. This assignment is setting them up for . . .”

She watched Easterly finger the cufflink which was turned toward her. It was as if it were staring at her, she thought. She forgot what she had been saying.

“Setting them up for--” Easterly prompted her, still tapping the jewelry lightly.

“For a research analysis they will complete . . .” But her mind was feeling a bit scrambled; she struggled to keep her train of thought.

“Really, Clarissa, isn’t it time you . . . thought a little more about your own needs?” Nathan Easterly’s voice was soothing; his face, entrancing.

Clarissa smiled, and sipped her drink.

Easterly stood abruptly, smiling at her disarmingly. “Do you mind if I use your bathroom?”

“Oh, do help yourself. You walk through the bedroom, there.” She pointed.

 

“Severus, you do seem different. What are you doing, man? Have you taken up some sort of new health regimen? You must share.”

Snape laughed and remarked that this is what Clarissa recommended. “But, no. Nothing new.” Snape sipped his nightcap.

“Ah, Clarissa!” Dumbledore said, eyes twinkling.

Severus sipped his drink and said nothing.

Albus looked at his friend meditatively then changed the subject. “How are you feeling after the loss of the boy? And the close brush for Harry? That was really terrific work you did out there, by the way.” He sipped. “We are all indebted to you.”

Snape shrugged. “I wish I had been able to do more. Our defences need a shot in the arm, so to speak. I am working on an expanded Meanders Map which will alert me when Voldemort or active Death Eaters are on the move near the grounds.” Snape frowned. He pulled out the map and opened it, pondering thoughtfully. “I can follow bits of Voldemort’s thoughts from time to time. But that is a very tiring enterprise. . . . He is extremely cloaked. Even to me. Though he reads me often . . . he is difficult for me to penetrate.”

“An expanded map would be helpful.”

Glancing again at the map, Snape’s face darkened.

“Is everything alright, Severus?”

“Oh, I imagine it is.” He exhaled slowly before he spoke. “There is a matter I need to discuss with you. It’s not good news.”

“Yes?”

“Sirius Black is in danger. Lord Voldemort disclosed to me that he is planning . . . to move against him, perhaps in another fortnight. He hinted that Bella has an old score to settle there. He claimed his intelligence sources have turned something up on Sirius.”

“But you doubt his word about the intelligence?”

“I don’t know what to believe. He may fabricating the entire story to test me somehow. It is quite possible he suspects _I_  know something about the file.”

Dumbledore nodded.

Snape sipped again and seemed to be weighing his next words carefully. “He also mentioned that Clarissa . . .”

Dumbledore’s eyebrows rose.

Snape breathed out heavily. “Voldemort asserted that right now Clarissa is necessary to his cause. He thinks she may know of the file’s whereabouts.” He breathed in deeply. “He wants me to read her. He also said--most chillingly--that without Sirius, Clarissa will be more vulnerable.”

Dumbledore’s face was grave. “Perhaps we must tell them both? Of course, we must warn Sirius.”

“I have.” Snape fidgeted in his seat, looked about the room,  and settled a grim gaze on his friend. “I told him if I were in his place, I would avoid travel for a good while. I would lie low.”

“And?”

“You know Sirius Black. He assumed I was trying to lord my knowledge over him.”

Dumbledore offered a wan half-smile.

“Suffice it to say, my warning meant nothing to Sirius, except, perhaps a challenge.”

“And what about warning Clarissa? Maybe I should be the one--”

“No.”

“Indeed, Severus? Do you intend to talk to her, then?”

“I think not.” His face darkened again.

Dumbledore waited.

Snape abruptly rose from his seat, walked across the room and gazed out the window for a full minute before turning back to his friend.

“Albus, are you sure that Clarissa doesn’t seek the file? That in fact, her job at the Ministry was not to find it? Of course, if that is her purpose here at Hogwarts, it is also Sirius’s purpose for her.” Snape paused. “But as Sirius’s life is clearly in danger, I had to tell him what I knew. Clarissa, on the other hand . . .”

Dumbledore finished his sentence. “Is not in danger, for now.”

Snape nodded.

“Well, I can understand your suspicions, Severus. However, I can assure you they will amount to nothing. I trust Clarissa as implicitly as I trust you. And doesn’t Clarissa deserve to know about the threat against her brother? She might be able to convince him to take precautions. . . . He may tell her himself about your warning.”

Snape paced away from the window, and back again, looking out at Ravenclaw Tower across the courtyard. “Albus, please say nothing to her for now. I have my reasons.”

 

Clarissa was feeling good--bloody, fabulously good--for the first time in a long time. She kissed Nathan Easterly, and he was kissing her. Stroking her face. Her hands. Her fingers. Her back. Her breasts. A hand was at her neck and running through her thick hair. She softened and warmed. He was delightfully firm, and smooth, everywhere she touched.

“Clarissa . . . you are wonderful,” he breathed. “I have been hoping . . . waiting . . . for this.”

“Nathan . . . ” She pulled her mouth away from him. Something at the edge of her mind was telling her to slow down; you don’t want this now, not yet, not him. . . . Another part of her--several parts, in fact--urged abandon. She ran her hand along the side of his muscular, lithe hip and down the length of his sinewy thigh. This man would be stunning, spectacular in her bed, she was sure of it. “But I . . .” The cautious voice at the edge of her mind now became inexplicably stronger.

“You . . . ?” he repeated, looking into her eyes disarmingly. Up close his eyes were . . . different. There was a red edge to his irises deep inside, with the green. She realized he actually was looking directly at her. Into her. She liked it.

“You . . . are quite beautiful,” he said simply.

She uttered a breathy “Blimey, Nathan.” She was melting, warmer than ever. “Thank you. . . . But I really . . . I must say, that while I’m not _always_ such a good girl . . .” She drew back and batted her eyes seductively. “Tonight I need to get to bed. Alone. As much as I have enjoyed . . . this evening.” She gazed into the emerald eyes and pulled him in for one last long kiss before pushing him up and off of her gently. Grabbing him back a moment, teasingly, she put decisive distance between their bodies. She straightened her hair and stood a trifle unsteadily, adjusting her skirt and smoothing her blouse.

 

Snape walked out of the Headmaster’s Suite and made his way slowly to his dungeon quarters. As he entered his bedroom with its rich mahogany walls and dark furnishings, he gazed fondly at the portrait of Lily Evans in its gleaming platinum frame next to his bed. He picked up the smiling photograph of the lovely seventeen-year old girl and stroked the bright metal. He had bought the frame a year after she died, saving money through that whole crushing period in order to afford the extravagant object from Borgin and Burkes. With the frame he had achieved a suitable resting place for his most cherished possession: the only physical picture of Lily he had.

He looked for a long while into Lily’s rich, laughing green eyes. He had actually watched her being photographed on that perfect fall day; she had been radiant in the autumn sunshine of the castle courtyard. Later, stealing her archived yearbook portrait was a simple matter of sleight of hand while the elderly school librarian’s back was turned. Of course, this was the only way he would get her picture, since by their last year of school, Lily had ended their friendship. He had referred to her as a “mudblood.” But he knew full well that Lily opposed more than just his insulting manners and hot temper. She had always been put off by his fascination with the Dark Arts.

And then, she had fallen in love with another. She and James had become a family. And then, she had been killed, in part because of his own allegiance to Lord Voldemort. It was quite simple.

He reached into the long inner pocket of his cape and took out the rolled parchment watchmap. Opening it far enough to see Gryffindor Tower, he could see the words “Harry Potter” inscribed within his bedroom. He unfurled the map further to see the Ravenclaw wing. Easterly was back in his room now; Clarissa’s name indicated she was in her own bed. His eyes roved across the map to where Dumbledore was still in his chair, with Fawkes. He placed the parchment on the night table next to the framed portrait.

He felt an old heaviness in his chest. The weight of around-the-clock responsibility, of hard duty, of entombed guilt. He sighed a long, slow sigh and turned to the picture of the girl with the beautiful red hair and green eyes.

“Lily, dear, the location of Harry Potter?”

“Harry is in bed upstairs, Severus. All is well. Good night, darling.” The mellifluous voice restored calm purpose in Severus Snape as he prepared himself for bed and prayers to Voldemort, slowly and carefully unbuttoning the long tunic.


	12. The View to the Lake

Clarissa arose the next morning humming to herself happily. The memory of being with Easterly was part of the reason; she couldn’t completely explain why she was so glad she had held off on a full-blown roll in the proverbial hay with the man. As wonderful as it would be.

She settled down onto the floor of her sitting room, a steaming mug within arm’s reach on the coffee table. She sat cross-legged and began to gently stretch her arms overhead and to the side, reaching over one knee, and then the other.

A tiny object fell onto the rug next to her knee as she extended herself.

“Well. One of those cufflinks!” She picked it up and examined it more closely. “It really is an exquisite thing.” Where did that come from? she wondered. It must have been stuck in my hair. But of course. She recalled the feeling of Nathan’s hand fondling the back of her head, stroking her curls. . . . She tucked the jewel-like object  into the small pocket of her black exercise pants. I’ll give that back to Nathan when I see him at the picnic.

She relished the memory of last night as she stretched, feeling her muscles give way, as her teacher, Yogi Gospozha Maria, had taught, at Troyan: Coax, coax, never force. . . . After the yoga, she would still have a couple of hours, maybe more, to grade papers before the Founder’s Day Picnic. Through the window she could see the day was already sunny; the weather for the festivities that afternoon was meant to be perfect.

As exercise and coffee gave way to marking, she was surprised at how tired she felt. When Sirius showed up in the mirror and inquired about her health, a tad solicitously, she quipped, “Guess I had more to drink last night than I thought. One of those delayed hangovers! It happens.” In fact, it happened far more often than she cared to admit. Must be age catching up with me. She decided not to tell her brother about the snogging session with Easterly.

Sirius had his own matters to get off his chest. “Well, dear sis, I was flat-out issued a warning by your friend Mr. Snape recently.”

“Warned? How?”

“He said I should ‘lie low’ for a while. Not sure how much lower I can get than this cave. . . . Snape claims to have some inside knowledge of Voldemort and Bellatrix planning to take me out.”

“Great Giles’s ghost,” was all Clarissa could muster.

Sirius shook his head and laughed bitterly. “Snape really loves to justify his claim to status as a double agent.”

“But, Sirius! He may really know something, you know.”

“I put no stock in it whatsoever.”

“Sirius, don’t be foolhardy. I would take what Snape says seriously. With a grain of salt, sure, but his warning deserves some credence.” She felt a rising panic at the idea of Snape having real insight into Voldemort’s thoughts. Thoughts saying her brother was in danger.

Sirius was annoyed, but his face softened when he saw Clarissa’s stress. He tried to sound light. “I will be extra careful, darling. For you.”

Good, she thought. Maybe he’ll actually use some sense. Her brother’s face faded away.

 

For the picnic she changed into a cami, and a drapey, long grey sweater over the yoga pants and ballet flats. At the last minute she picked up her wand which she had almost left lying on the coffee table. “Ninny!” she chided herself, slipping it into her sleeve.

She sauntered out of the castle behind a mob of chattering students carrying Quidditch equipment. Clarissa spied Luna who was, as usual, off to the side, so often on her own among the crowd.

“Hello, Luna,” called out Clarissa, breezily.

“Oh, Ms. Black, good afternoon. Happy Founders’ Day! You’re looking . . . How are you feeling?”

“Happy Founder’s Day to you, dear.” Clarissa smiled. “I guess I’m okay. A little tired. How are you?”

“Likewise,” Luna said, smiling, as they entered the open, sunshine-filled yard. “Look, it’s Professor Snape!” Luna gestured towards a row of faculty members. “Well, enjoy yourself!” Luna strolled away, towards a table of poured punch and finger sandwiches.

Clarissa nodded over at Snape who appraised her coolly. Was he trying to look friendly? It was hard to say. As she walked down towards the shore of Black Lake, admiring the clear view, Easterly came strutting across the open yard towards her, narrowly avoiding the spit from a Gobstone match in progress.

“Clarissa!” He took both her hands in his own. “You look smashing today!”

She blushed. “Thank you, Nathan.”

His gaze was penetrating. “Did you sleep well?”

“Rather,” she said a mite uncertainly.

He grabbed her hand impulsively. “How about . . . a little excursion out on the lake with me? I’ve . . .” He drew her close. “I’ve done nothing but think of you since last night. I can’t imagine a more perfect setting in which to admire you than out on the open water!”

“Why, that actually sounds like fun.” And it did. Since Cedric’s death it had occurred to her that rowing out onto Black Lake would be a terrific exercise alternative to trail runs.

As if reading her mind, Easterly said, “I’ll even let you row.” He grinned a bit impishly.

She laughed. “Sure, I’m game!”

 

Snape watched Easterly and Clarissa make their way down to shore where several rowboats were drawn up. Easterly stood at the side and and helped Clarissa step in and settle herself in the stern. Then Easterly shoved off neatly and scrambled in, seating himself in the bow, facing her. The two were laughing as the boat moved out onto the water.

 

Ron pointed at the boat making its way from shore. “Harry! Blimey. Look at that.”

Harry looked, and smiled faintly, in surprise. “Well, okay, then.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Let the two have a moment. Why must we all gawk at them?” As if to prove a point, she turned away from the lake. “Oh, hello, Luna!”

“Hi, there, Gryffindors! How are you enjoying the picnic?” The three nodded vaguely. “Isn’t it odd to see Clarissa Black and Mr. Easterly out on the water together?”

“Why do you say that, Luna?” asked Hermione, puzzled. Ron and Harry continued to stare after the couple on the water.

“Because she doesn’t really care for him,” said Luna.

 

Easterly’s voice was soothing. “Wonderful job, Clarissa! . . . You are quite the athlete!”

She smiled back at him.

“Terrific girl. Really, terrific.” Easterly’s voice dropped a few pitches and was . . . so . . . calming. So slow. Clarissa found herself rowing as if on automatic pilot. Her limbs felt quite heavy.

Nathan leaned in near her face and stroked her cheek. She slowly stopped rowing and simply basked under his gaze.

“Dear Clarissa,” he said, cupping her chin in his hand. “You are all about working so hard, so intent on doing a good job, it seems like you are making up for something you feel bad about. . . . What is it? Do you think you disappointed Dumbledore?” Now Easterly leaned back. He swept one hand in a circle over Clarissa’s head. “But of course, he terrifically admires the work you are doing for his students. Dumbledore admires you very much, I know it. You should relax a little.” Easterly’s voice seemed to fill her head.

She rowed again, now more slowly, nodded and smiled. She liked the sound of it. He’s right. I don’t have to work so hard every minute. . . .

“That’s right,” he breathed. “Life isn’t meant to be so hard. You deserve a rest.”

 

Fawkes perched on his master’s shoulder as Dumbledore held a plateful of small sandwiches and an assortment of cookies. He edged over to where Snape stood gazing out over the water. “Would you like a cucumber, salami and cheese, Severus?”

Snape shook his head absently.

Dumbledore looked over the water at the boat which was small in the distance.

 

Now it felt as if Easterly were talking to her from inside her head, caressingly. “Clarissa . . . you worked at the Ministry, many years ago. Do you remember?”

Clarissa stared at Easterly’s face. His voice was swirling around inside her head, but his lips hadn’t actually moved at all. He was smiling at her vacantly. Vague alarm bells were beginning to go off deep within her.

“Tell me, Clarissssa.” His voice was now snakelike, hissing her name. “You are a good girl, and you want to tell me something very important about your work while at the Ministry’s Office of Wizarding Purity. The ancient dossier on the Elder Wand. Do you remember the file?”

Clarissa Black found herself picturing the large, leather-bound dossier that had rested on Lucius’s desk for days. One night in particular was conjured up in her mind’s eye with such ease, it was as if she were watching an old movie of that part of her life.

_Lucius leaned over her, stroking her long blond hair away from her face and kissing her on the chest as he began unbuttoning her thin blouse. “Darling, do you know what this is?” He tapped the side of the fat file next to her head as he pressed her farther back on the stack of papers._

_She shook her head, looking into Lucius’s cool blue eyes._

_“Whoever masters the Elder Wand with this--” he slapped it hard with the heel of his hand--“will rule the world!” And with that he threw her back on the desk._

 

Luna Lovegood said with some alarm, “Something isn’t right out there. Ms. Black--she’s not well.”

Hermione looked at her, puzzled. “How can you tell?”

“Look at her! She’s not behaving the least bit naturally! She--she was rowing, but now she’s not really moving at all.”

Hermione blushed a trifle. “Luna, I don’t really think we should be watching--”

Harry nodded his agreement. Ron stared out at the boat, eyes wide.

Ron exclaimed, “Luna’s right! Look at them! Mr. Easterly is gesturing . . . like . . . some sort of snake charmer!”

Harry now stared intently at the small scene out on the water. “Luna, you’re right!” He cupped a hand towards the water as if to listen. Next he grabbed his scar. “Oh my goodness,” he said. “I thought I caught some . . . parseltongue.” He rubbed his forehead.

 

On the boat, Clarissa found she could hardly keep her eyes open as her mind struggled to return to the present. Something is horribly wrong with me, she said to herself. She felt sure that Easterly was using a stupefying spell against her, but she was so foggy, and so tired, she had no idea what to do to regain control of her faculties.

“You are doing so well, Clarissa, so very, very well. Show me more of what you and Lucius did that night. . . .”

Clarissa relived several more memorable moments from Lucius’s desk. Easterly directed her attention as if he were conducting a musical performance.

“All _very_ interesting, Clarissa! _Good work_ , girl. Now be a good egg and tell me, did you read the dossier? Do you know what is written in the Elder Wand Prophecy?”

“I do not know it. I did not read it.”

“What did Lucius do with the dossier?”

“He made notes.” She pictured the small black notebook.

“Did he take the dossier out of his office, Clarissa?”

Nothing. Clarissa’s mind offered nothing.

Easterly suddenly turned her attention away from Lucius’s desktop exploits. “Well, now, tell me about Madeline Creech. The Department of Library Studies intern. Did you know her?

“I knew her,” spoke Clarissa, automatically.

“Were you friends with her?”

“I was not friends with her,” said Clarissa.

“Did you show her the file with the Elder Wand Prophecy? Or discuss it with her?”

“I did not show her. I did not converse with Madeline Creech,” intoned Clarissa, hollowly.

“You are friends with Severus Snape, are you not, Clarissa? Has Severus Snape discussed the Elder Wand file with you?”

“No. Severus and I have not discussed the file.”

“When you worked at the Ministry, did you ever see Mr. Snape with the Elder Wand file? Or hear him discuss it with anyone?”

“No, I never saw Severus with the file. He did not discuss it with me.”

“Has Albus Dumbledore discussed the file with you?”

Now a small voice had begun to gather itself at the back of her mind. “Fight him! Fight him! Use your defensive skills! You are trained for this!” Like calling up a small pin prick of light in the foggy grey, she tried to rally her strength against his assault. Willing the image of Sirius into her mind she threw out a thread to him. _Sirius . . . Sirius, help me . . ._

Easterly continued to penetrate. “Clarissa . . . Do not resist. There is no need to be so strong any longer. . . . You can relax. . . .”

Clarissa panicked. She felt herself sliding into a deep dark chasm. Even as the sunlight reflected all around her off the water, the light in her was fading fast.

 

Snape was pacing along the side of the beach, mumbling, gripping his wand. Albus stood nearby. Fawkes, perched on his master’s shoulder, was becoming agitated.

“Severus, maybe we should do something. I will send out a--”

Luna ran to Snape, pointing at Fawkes. “Something is wrong with Ms. Black! Really, shouldn’t somebody go out there? Please, send a defensive spell!”

 

Sirius’s voice climbed into of a deep recess of Clarissa’s mind. _Clarissa, what is it? What is the trouble?_

_Sirius, I’m . . . I don’t know . . . I can’t move, I can barely think. . . ._

_Who’s there with you?_

_Nathan . . . Easterly . . ._

_Clarissa. Listen to me. Focus your energy. It is some kind of spell but you can fight. Listen. Listen to my voice. . . . Hold on. . . ._

Clarissa grabbed Sirius’s voice like it was a rope being tossed out to her on the water.

_Clarissa, can you get to your wand?_

My wand. My wand. Giles, my wand. . . . Vaguely she recalled that it was in her sleeve. She grabbed it and jerked her arm forward awkwardly, like a wind-up doll.

“ _Expelliarmus!_ ” she mumbled.

The meager attempt to disarm Easterly yielded one momentous result: she saw Nathan Easterly for what he was. His human form flashed in and out of the tall, long body of a giant snake, like a wavering video feed.

“Clarisssssaaa, tell me more about the file!”

 _Fight him Clarissa! Fight him! You are stronger!_ Sirius’s voice was fire, urging her, willing her to act.

The snake seemed to wrap itself around her mind. Summoning every ounce of energy she had, she broke through the hold the snake had placed on her muscles and nerves.

Clarissa sprang forward out of her reclined position, brandishing her wand smoothly. “ _Avada Kedavra!_ ” she shouted. The crowd now assembled on shore heard her shriek and watched the sparks fly from her extended arm.

Nagini shot straight into the air, dodging the force of her death-blow. The snake flew out over the water some distance from the boat, then plunged straight into the water with barely a splash.

 

“Clarissa, dear, can you hear me?” Dumbledore was leaning over her; Minerva was alongside him.

She nodded very slightly.

Dumbledore drew himself up to his full height. Curious students and teachers remained some distance away from where Dumbledore had carefully pulled the rowboat ashore by means of a magnetism spell.

“What--what happened? How did I get here?” Clarissa’s eyes were wild as she struggled to sit up.

“Dear, don’t get up,” Minerva insisted.

“No, please, Minerva, I must sit.” With Dumbledore’s assistance, she sat, and promptly vomited. Her mind was fuzz. She shook her head a few times to try to clear her mind.

“We will get you inside right away, dear.” Minerva gestured towards Hagrid and Snape who were standing off to the side with the hushed crowd of students. “Please, gentlemen--if you would assist Ms. Black inside.”

Supported on either side by the men, she made her way slowly towards the castle. Dumbledore turned to Minerva. “I will alert Sirius immediately. Please see that Clarissa is made comfortable, and tell her I’ll be along.”

 

Dumbledore closed the door to Clarissa’s bedroom quietly. “Minerva. I’m terribly worried. She is getting worse, not better. I can’t quite understand . . .”

“It was very dark magic, very cruel magic, indeed, that Mr. Easterly--I mean, that _thing_ , practised on her today!” She looked very tired and sad as she gazed out the window and across the lake. The long shadows of the coming evening stretched across the water.

“Minerva, send Severus to me. Why don’t you take a break for dinner?”

“Thank you, Albus. I will want an update immediately, if there is a change in her. Please.”

“But of course, Minerva. And I think it might be for the best if you returned later to sleep in these quarters.”

“Of course, Albus.”

Albus knocked gently on the door to the bedroom and hearing nothing, entered.

 

Clarissa was in a terrible, dark dream. The papery, sharp voice of Lord Voldemort was scraping the inside of her head. She whimpered quietly.

 _Clarissa Black, you will not win. You will give everything, lose everything for the cause, as your cause is unwinnable. You will lose, Clarissa, you will lose . . . everything._ . . . Cold invaded every space of her. Dementor breath was penetrating, freezing her from groin to abdomen to chest to torn and bleeding brain. She shook.

Dumbledore held her hand to his face, and pondered. The hand was cool to the touch. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a tiny round object glint from where it lay on the rug next to a pair of black pants.

He lowered Clarissa’s hand and picked up the tiny item. Its red and black surface was glossy in the lamplight.

Albus heard a faint knock on the outer door to Clarissa’s quarters. Striding out to the foyer, Albus swung the door open. “Severus, thank goodness. Come in.”

Snape gazed around curiously at the array of large paintings from Walburga’s collections that enlivened the walls. He turned back to Albus. “How is she?”

“She is sleeping. Very fitfully. She is not well. I found this on the floor, moments ago.”

Snape took the small object between thumb and  forefinger and gazed at it a long while. He held it to his ear and paused, as if listening.

“I believe its magic is . . . very new, and very devastating.”

“”What is it?”

“If I am correct, it is a Parsel Legitor.”

Dumbledore looked blank.

“I have read about this but have never seen one before now. This permutation has been specially devised by Easterly to read Clarissa Black’s mind, as well as to drain her energy.”

Dumbledore looked grave. And sad. He sunk down onto a nearby couch. “Severus, what have I done? What have I allowed into my school? Nagini. Right here. . . .”

“Albus, you know what we are up against. Easterly was a Voldemort masterstroke; none of us had a real sense of what that man was. Until Clarissa managed to fight him off today.” Snape spoke of her deed with some reverence. “It’s rather a miracle to me she was able to repel him at all, after exposure to the Legitor. Her health should improve as soon as this is out of play. I will destroy it immediately.”

“Of course, Severus. While you take care of it, I will check on Clarissa.” Albus made his way quietly to her bedside. As she tossed about, Dumbledore felt tortured by whatever unquiet dreams possessed his former student.

Snape had opened several kitchen cabinets and selected a coffee mug. As Albus came back to the kitchen, Snape placed the cufflink inside the mug and set it in the middle of the floor. He stepped away from it and intoned, “ _Expulso!”_

A low moaning sound filled the room, followed by the rushing of wind and then a sharp, crackling noise. A puff of foul-smelling smoke rose from the mug. Snape picked it up, gingerly, and peered in. “Done. I do hope this wasn’t her favourite.” The deep blue mug was now slightly misshapen. The inside surfaces were scarred and ridged with a tarry substance.

Dumbledore smiled. “She can easily conjure another.”

Snape remarked, “Easterly was clever. He prepared for today well. I imagine some time ago he took a reading of her thought patterns by holding the cufflinks near her head.”

“Well, there are plenty of times he could have done that. During a faculty meeting . . . Or, at the pub . . .”

Snape put in quickly. “Or at the dance. He was with her . . . off and on, all evening long.”

Albus nodded.

Severus continued, “Then when he was here last night, he must have planted the device somewhere. Where did you find this?”

“It was on the floor of the bedroom, next to the pants she wore today.”

Severus nodded. “That means the thing might have been with her all night, and all day today, draining her energy, and coordinating Nagini’s reading of her thoughts.”

Albus looked at Snape squarely. “You said ‘when he was here.’ You knew Easterly was here last night.”

Snape met his friend’s gaze. “I--I saw it on the Meanders’ Map.”

“Of course,” was all Albus said. He understood now what had preoccupied his friend the night before.

Snape grabbed Dumbledore’s arm. “But, Albus. Great Giles. I’m an idiot! There were _two_ cufflinks. He may have left another . . . here somewhere. . . . We must search.”

Together the two walked around, looking into drawers, under tables. Snape dug his hands into the couch cushions.

Albus entered the bedroom. Clarissa was still tossing and moaning as if sleep were painful. Albus gazed around him, reticent to search very far into the intimate spaces of this woman’s most private room. He glanced into a side table drawer, under an armchair draped with bras and exercise togs, and then bent down to peer under the bed.

There it lay, within arm’s reach. The matching red and black cufflink. He drew it out triumphantly.

Walking to the next room, he presented it to Snape who sighed in obvious relief.

“Good work! Where was it?”

“Under the bed.” Albus looked embarrassed for his friend, and watched him for a sign that anything was amiss, but the younger man gave nothing away.

Snape placed the jewel in the misshapen mug and performed the incantation once again; and again there was moaning, rushing wind, crackling, and a puff of stinky smoke.

Snape picked up the mug as if deciding what to do with it. He shrugged. “I’ll take this. An analysis downstairs might actually give us some pertinent information about the composition of the instrument he used.”

“Good idea. Well, your work here is done, man,” said Albus.

“Shouldn’t someone stay to . . .”

“Check on Miss Black?” But of course, Severus. Minerva will come later. I will remain until she arrives for the night.”

Severus nodded, and swept out of the Ravenclaw Head of House Suite.

 

Albus peeked into the bedroom again. Clarissa lay staring up at the ceiling, pale and shiny with sweat. She looked to Albus wildly when he approached the bed.

“Dear girl,” was all he managed to say, laying a hand on her shoulder.

She clutched at his robe and then buried her face in it, teary.

“There, there.” Dumbledore sat on the bed, held her, and let her cry. Clarissa felt like she was breaking into pieces. But Dumbledore’s kind embrace kept the pieces from floating away.

 

Later, after he prepared and administered tea, he explained in a rudimentary way how Easterly had gained entry to her thoughts.

“Those cufflinks!” she exclaimed. “I should have guessed--”

“But why should you guess?”

She just shook her head. It was hard to know what was reasonable to expect of herself anymore. She swallowed hard, and braced herself not to cry.

Dumbledore sipped his own tea and gazed at her kindly from the armchair drawn up next to her bed. “I know this is an intrusion, dear, but it is important for the Order to know Easterly’s purpose. So I need to ask what you remember about being in the boat today. It seems clear that you are a part of Voldemort’s plan. You, and Cedric Diggory.”

She nodded. It wasn’t hard to connect the dots about Cedric. She focused on the face of Dupont in the painting on the wall facing her bed. “He wanted to know some very specific information. What Lucius had done with a file that was . . . on his desk for about a week while I was working for him.”

Dumbledore nodded. “The Elder Wand Dossier. The one that went missing from the Ministry in 1988.”

“That sounds . . . right, yes. . . . All I could tell him was . . .” She collected herself. “Well. I showed him a lot more than I could tell him. He was . . . making me relive an intimate encounter Lucius and I had in his office.” While Clarissa favored being frank, she felt rather uncomfortable under Dumbledore’s paternal gaze.

Dumbledore expressed no judgment towards her. “I know about that. I suppose it was . . . very strange for you to relive it.”

“Strange? Albus, it was disgusting.” And she felt more sickened remembering Easterly’s voyeuristic manipulations within her mind. “But . . . he really seemed to be after only one thing: what I could recall about the file itself.”

“And what could you tell him?”

“Not much. I only saw it on the desk. I have no idea what came of it later.”

Dumbledore relaxed visibly.

“He also asked me about Madeline Creech.”

“Indeed?”

“But I never knew her. Albus, what happened to her? Why did she take her own life?” Clarissa could recall the tall, thin girl with lank mousy blonde hair and that plain, but rather sweet face.

Dumbledore patted her arm warmly, gripping her. “That, my dear, is a rather long and difficult story. Someday soon you may know.”

“Oh, and one other thing he asked me about.”

Dumbledore’s eyebrows rose.

“He wanted to know if I had ever discussed the file with Snape. Or with you.”

He nodded, slowly.

“I imagine I told him no. Since we haven’t. I . . . don’t recall exactly what happened next. I know Sirius was directing me.” She sighed. “Please tell Sirius I thank him. And that I will be okay.” She looked at Albus a tad pleadingly. “I will be okay, won’t I?”

“Of course, dear! Snape has taken care of the mind-reading devices. I will leave you to sleep. You will . . . feel like bloody hell tomorrow, I am afraid.”

She was already nodding off.

Dumbledore added something about sending Minerva to stay with her, but Clarissa did not reply.


	13. Assurance

Clarissa Black awoke to a pounding head and a churning stomach. She ran to the bathroom where heavy retching provided some grim relief. She stayed slumped over the toilet feeling the cool porcelain on her face for several minutes before she rose, washed her face with cold water, and rinsed her mouth. She grabbed a towel to take back to bed with her, and wiped her face, moaning.

“This is either the worst hangover of my life, or--”

Minerva McGonagall stood in the doorway of her bedroom. “--Or the after effects of a really treacherous bit of dark magic engineered by Mr. Easterly,” Minerva finished, flatly.

“Oh, Minerva! I wasn’t . . . expecting you to be here. This is so embarrassing. And gross.”  Clarissa staggered back to the bedroom and flopped face down onto the bed, legs splaying out wide.

Minerva smiled and said assuringly, “Don’t be silly, dear. You were attacked! By that--that-- _thing_ , that horrible creature!” She helped settle Clarissa under the covers. “By the way, dear, your brother Sirius appeared in the parlor mirror about an hour ago. I told him you were sleeping. He wishes you well.”

Clarissa nodded soberly. She knew she had been close to her own edge the day before--perhaps closer than she’d been in her life. Sirius had been her lifeline.

“Albus told me Snape was able to determine that Mr. Easterly’s cufflinks were something he called a Parsel Legitor. I think that’s what he said.”

“He put one in my hair . . . last night.”

Minerva’s eyebrows rose, and she sighed. “Yes. Voldemort’s doing; Easterly held the things close to your head at the dance, which gave him some kind of baseline reading of your thoughts. The devices actually drained your energy while making your mind more accessible!” Minerva shuddered, and patted Clarissa’s hand. “Anyway, Dumbledore told me that you would likely be feeling horrible when you awoke. He left this for you to drink.” Minerva broke a vial of light blue powder into a glass of water on Clarissa’s night table. The water, with the addition of the blue stuff, turned bright yellow. Minerva handed her the frothy lemony-smelling liquid.

Clarissa took it gratefully and drank it down. It tasted mildly tart but also sweet. She almost immediately felt her head pound less; her stomach was considerably calmer since being ill, so her body was starting to feel like her own again.

Minerva pulled a chair next to the bed and nodded sympathetically. “Dumbledore told me that Easterly was pressing you for information about the Elder Wand file.”

“Yeah. . . . Only, I don’t know anything about that Ministry file. I only saw it lying around the place.”

Minerva nodded but didn’t say more or ask her more about where she had seen it.

Clarissa was happy to avoid talking to Minerva about Lucius. But she was eager to know more about the girl who walked into the lake. “He also asked about a woman who worked here, Madeline Creech.”

Minerva looked woebegone at the mention of Miss Creech. “What did he ask you about her?” she queried, in a small voice.

Clarissa thought. “I--I’m not sure. I was rather out of it. I think he only asked if I knew her. I didn’t.”

Minerva nodded lightly.

“Minerva, what happened to her? What is the theory about her suicide?”

Minerva looked sober. “It was a terrible, terrible tragedy. I believe the girl was very unbalanced.”

“Unbalanced? That’s it?” Clarissa couldn’t imagine that was all there was to the tale. She pictured tall, wispy Madeline Creech broken by the weight of her world . . . at what age? Twenty-five? Walking straight into the water, never looking back. Beyond anyone’s reach. What makes someone decide life is no longer worth living, Clarissa wondered? All the years in Azkaban she had fought tooth and nail to hang onto life. So many forces were at work that would take you out of this world. Madeline decided to tear herself out. Clarissa thought of her favourite Shakespeare play from school days. Hamlet’s Ophelia walked into water, too. She was not simply crazy; shunned and shamed by her lover, heartbroken, Ophelia made a partially rational choice. What was the basis for Madeline’s?

Minerva sat looking vaguely uncomfortable. “I can’t really offer you any more than what I said. She had only worked here for a few months.” Her lips formed a thin line.

Clarissa was certain Minerva knew more about Madeline Creech than she was telling.

 

In the hour following dinner that night, Snape met Dumbledore for a walk around the grounds. For many minutes they simply strolled, soothed by the beautiful lavender evening sky giving way to night.

Finally Dumbledore spoke. “Severus, I have engaged the services of one Remus Lupin to finish the year teaching Defence. I considered placing you in the position--but to install a really good Potions teacher mid-term would be impossible. Lupin is available, and eager.”

Snape shook his head and responded in a voice laced with sarcasm. “But of course. A werewolf to teach the children. Were no vampires looking for day jobs?”

Dumbledore ignored the pointed jibe. “What was Minerva’s report on Clarissa, at dinner?”  

“She said Clarissa was resting comfortably when she left her room late this morning. But of course, she had been very ill, and was more . . . mentally affected than physically.”

“Of course,” Dumbledore nodded. “It was horrific, what he put her through, I’ll warrant.”

Snape agreed.

Dumbledore reflected, “But thank goodness . . . it seems there wasn’t a lot of information to get out of her. I don’t want to say ‘I told you so,’ Severus, but I knew Clarissa was not in the know about the file. She does not seek it. And she won’t.”

Snape did not acknowledge his friend’s assertion. “But Voldemort is clearly seeking the file, and getting warmer. Of course this means he is also seeking the Wand.”

“He has always sought the Wand. But now that he is corporeal, he can make use of it.” Dumbledore’s voice became very grave now, and soft. “And Severus, now that he has read her, he might . . .”

“He might look to remove her. I know.”

“Severus, she must know of the threat to her life.”

Snape nodded. “Please. You tell her.”

The men walked in silence for several minutes as the night grew dark.

“Albus, I have an update on the situation with Draco Malfoy.”

Dumbledore gave a soft “Hmmm.”

“Voldemort will assign him the task. He believes that it is the boy’s destiny to disarm you. He will give the boy the orders soon. I believe, at the next meeting.”

“Voldemort believes Draco is destined for greatness. This is his test.” Dumbledore sighed heavily. “I’m . . . very afraid for the boy, Severus.”

Severus nodded, grave. “I, too, Albus.”

The two came to the lake view that Clarissa and Snape had enjoyed five nights earlier.

Snape offered an uncharacteristically abrupt emotional disclosure. “Albus, I have been feeling . . . full of renewed regret about what happened to Madeline Creech that night. . . . Right down there is where she drowned.”

“Why do you think you have these feelings?”

Snape considered. “Well, you told me Easterly wanted information from Clarissa about her. I feel a certain responsibility for what he put Clarissa through, given . . . all that’s happened. I never felt any responsibility whatsoever to Madeline; though I probably should have. Of course, that was after Lily died, and I couldn’t think of much else for a very long time.” Snape’s face registered a most atypical emotion: simple confusion.

As they walked side by side, Dumbledore touched his friends’ arm lightly. “Severus, you know that Madeline was a gifted seer, an intelligent woman, but also highly unstable, emotionally. She was mentally ill. Her death was not your doing.”

“Well, it certainly had something to do with me. I was quite cruel to her. I couldn’t imagine anyone but Lily. . . . If Madeline had been treated with a little more kindness . . .”

Albus nodded, grave. “You make a good point. You were very young. But while you may have been unkind, you were not responsible for her choice.”

“Don’t you see, Albus,” Snape said sadly, “how very badly I impact women who come close to me?”

 

That night, in spite of having slept on and off all day, Clarissa prepared for bed at an early hour. She so wanted to put the slimy, disgusting feel of the past forty-eight hours behind her. And be ready to face students Monday morning.

A soft knock at her door interrupted her way to bed.

“Good evening, Headmaster,” she said, with some surprise.

“Clarissa. I apologize for the uncouth hour of this visit,” he said, observing that she was dressed for sleep.

“Please, come in.”

The two sat in the parlour.

“Clarissa, I will not mince words at this time. Severus and I both believe that you are being targeted by Voldemort.”

She stared, puzzled. “That seems patently clear.”

Albus shook his head. “No. I don’t mean by reading you. Severus has heard from Lord Voldemort that you are--were--important for the information you might provide him about the file. Otherwise, he considers you a threat. You and your brother.”

Her eyebrows rose.

“Voldemort has indicated you both are at risk. For removal.” He took her hand. “I believe you are safe here. But any travel to and from the castle must be considered very carefully.”

“But Sirius . . .”

Dumbledore looked grim. “Sirius must be on high alert at all times, indeed.”

“Why do you think Voldemort believes we are such a threat?”

“My dear, you are a very powerful witch. And you are . . . from a very powerful family.” Dumbledore rose. “We will speak again of this matter. For now, please take care.”

 

Her brother appeared in the mirror and called to her as she passed back through the parlour on her way to bed.

“Clarissa! Great Martha, I’m so glad to see you!”

“Sirius. Oh, god, good to see you too. I--I would have called on you, but I’ve just been so spent--”

“Well, I know. And I didn’t want to disturb you as I knew you were feeling like hell.”

“Yeah. It was hell. I feel better, just really tired now. Hey, please let me thank you . . . for what you did for me out there. I would have been knackered, completely, without you.”

He grinned at her. “Well, I’d been waiting for a chance to return the favor, darling.”

She smiled back, then asked him if he had been told about Easterly’s Parsel Legitor.

“What in bloody hell is a Parsel Legitor?”

She explained about the cufflinks. Sirius whistled, and ran his hand through his shaggy hair. “Clarissa, what have I gotten you into at that place?”

Sirius’s guilt only made her feel worse. “Sirius, you didn’t _put_ me here. I came here of my own accord, you know.”

“Bloody hell, I get that, Clarissa! But I asked you to seek that job. Let me feel just a little responsible for you, okay?”

He sulked a moment; Clarissa bit her lip and wondered, why does it always feel as if Sirius and I are at cross purposes, when we are working for the same goal?

“Oh, and . . . I was warned by Dumbledore that we are _both_ at risk for removal by Voldemort.”

Sirius rolled his eyes for just a moment, and then gave her a long look. “Dumbledore said that, did he?” Her brother’s dark eyes and boyish face looked troubled.

 

 


	14. A Prophecy Revealed

Sirius prepared his animagus self for a visit to Hogsmeade, from whence he would portkey to Grimmauld Place for the Order meeting. He found visiting the Hog’s Head bar in town useful for picking up bits of information now and again, as Death Eaters had a preference for that establishment over Rosmerta’s.

He waited until a group of scruffy-looking types were entering the pub together, and he slipped in alongside them. A large, shaggy black dog stood out pretty much anywhere except in the Hog’s Head. He slunk over to a dank corner and slumped down behind a table.

He must’ve dozed a while when he was awakened by a rather shrill, loud young voice which he recognized as that of Draco Malfoy.

“Yeah, Voldemort has major plans for me.”

Sirius cocked his canine head to one side. He heard only low grumblings in response to Draco. He needed to get around this table to see who was with him, so he crawled all the way under the table, and out the other side, to lie opposite where Draco stood. Seated were fellow students Crabbe and Goyle, as well as two men in black robes and hoods. Draco was droning on from his standing position at the high table, drinking beer. It seemed he had already had a few, fueling his talk.

“So, I found out I am to be the one to take out the old man,” Draco drawled.

Crabbe and Goyle hunched over their drinks and grinned at each other sideways.

“And when that happens, I’ll be the Wand Master, for sure. That’s how it works.” He downed a swig.

One of the men looked up from his mug. Glancing at the other hooded figure, he said to Draco, “How do you plan to do it? Are ya gettin’ your Daddy--or will it be Mummy--to help you?” The two men erupted into rough laughter.

Draco slammed the mug of beer onto the table. “Very funny, Carrow. I don’t think either you or your brother should be joking about this.” Draco sat down to finish his beer and the conversation turned to more mundane topics, including muggle sporting events.

Who knew Death Eaters were such football fans? Sirius asked himself. He was dozing again when he picked up a familiar name in the conversation.

“. . . Clarissa Black . . . totally hypnotized by Easterly. She was completely debilitated, like his puppet! Can you imagine . . . the time a bloke could have with the likes of her.”

Sirius thought the gruff voice was Crabbe’s. The others at the table chuckled and made vulgar comments about his sister. He growled involuntarily, baring his teeth. But what he heard next turned his blood cold.

“Yeah. I hear I might get a crack at her next,” Draco drawled. “After I do the old man, Dad says Voldemort wants Clarissa to go.” Draco’s voice cracked. The rest of the men at the table muttered their grim approval.

Sirius waited until the men left the bar, but heard nothing more which was of value. He jogged to the portkey for London and transformed, feeling sick to his stomach.

A block away from the portkey, Amycus Carrow turned to his brother, and spoke softly. “I believe Sirius Black is on the move tonight.”

Alecto smiled.

 

“The meeting will come to order,” intoned Snape, who turned deferentially to Dumbledore. “Headmaster, you wish to involve Harry in a discussion of next steps for defending ourselves against Lord Voldemort?”

Dumbledore looked around the table of key members of the Order of the Phoenix who were at 12 Grimmauld Place for the special meeting. Sirius, Clarissa, Severus, Molly and Arthur Weasley, Remus Lupin, Nymphadora Tonks, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Mad-Eye Moody, and Harry himself looked back at him. Harry, he could see, looked both eager and nervous at the same time.

Dumbledore responded slowly. “Thank you, Severus. And thank you, Sirius and Clarissa, for hosting this meeting at your family home.

“We are in a strange new time, my friends. Voldemort has been reborn corporeally. He can now walk, run, fly, and perform magic. Recently, he attacked and murdered a student just off of school property, the attack narrowly survived by Harry. And Clarissa Black was assaulted just two nights ago by Voldemort’s henchman, Nathan Easterly, a clever disguise of the serpent Nagani. While this latter attack is not a direct result of Voldemort’s new form, it is a sign of his increasing boldness.”

Clarissa squirmed a little in her seat, as several around the table looked startled at the news about Easterly. Dumbledore went on.

“I can sense Lord Voldemort’s desire for the Elder Wand that has been in my possession since my duel with Grindelwald--which most of you here know. You also know that I was fit to own the Elder Wand, since I would never kill with it nor boast of mastering it. I was permitted to tame it and to use it, because I took it, not for gain, but to save others from it. Voldemort has always coveted the Wand. If it fell into his hands, the world would feel pain and devastation as never before. . . .”

Faces around the table were gravely attentive.

“Recently I met with Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic, to relay some of my concerns. He was unimpressed. Fudge does not see there is any new risk to the Wizarding World and would prefer I not be talking to you about the matter. He would especially prefer that I do not speak to Harry of my concerns, and for me to tell Harry this next part would probably result in my ouster from Hogwarts School, were the Minister aware.”

He looked meaningfully at the boy. “All of you besides our youngest present recall that the master file that accompanies the Wand went missing from the Ministry Archives in 1988. The Elder Wand dossier has not been seen since.”

“I heard Lucius had it,” said Mad-Eye. “My office has learned that he pointed the finger at Miss Black, back then.” He nodded gravely at Clarissa. “The Pettigrew murders were only the official reason you got housed at Azkaban. But Voldemort still suspected Lucius for years. Malfoy was practically tortured to death at one point.”

Clarissa looked down at her hands resting on the table.  She could feel both Snape and Sirius eying her from opposite sides.

Dumbledore sighed. “Clarissa, it was most shocking to discover that Lucius used the disappearance of the file against you. It was . . . most unfortunate.”

Clarissa looked up, gazing directly at him, but said nothing. She thought ruefully, You know why Narcissa demanded that Lucius put me away. The file was just a face-saving excuse on his part.

Tonks and Remus nodded. Tonks spoke, with a sympathetic glance at her cousin. “We had heard the missing file was Lucius’s doing all along. But the thing never turned up. No one can figure out what he did with it.”

Sirius looked puzzled. “I doubt Lucius was responsible. Why wouldn’t he hand it over? There wouldn’t be any question in my mind: If he had the thing, he’d already have used it to get in good with his Dark Lord and Master.”

“Unless Lucius wanted to keep it for himself,” said Snape in a low voice. “There is the distinct possibility . . . that Lucius has a long term plan involving the Wand.”

Dumbledore nodded. “You see, the file contains much ancient Wand lore, its entire complex history, as well as the Wand’s future. There is a series of intricate prophecies, written in obscure languages. There are accompanying spells, rather like an operator’s manual. And there is reason--I must agree with Severus--to suspect that Lucius may harbor plans for its future use.”

Clarissa spoke up now, quietly. “I know that Lucius studied the prophecies. He made notes about the file. I saw him.”

Sirius looked at her intently. What was he thinking?

She continued, “Lucius possessed the file for many days while cataloguing its contents at the Ministry Department of Wizarding Purity. He also made notes in a slim black notebook.” She her hands up in front of her to indicate a rectangle about the size of one’s hand.

Remus put in, “Well, has he handed the notes over? What happened to those?”

Clarissa shook her head. “I have no idea.”

Snape looked at Clarissa. “You worked in that office. Did you ever read the file?”

She shook her head and chose her words carefully. “Lucius was fond of showing off, in order to impress . . . his underlings.” Thinking back to the night on Lucius’s desk, the colour started to rise in her cheeks. “I saw it, but I never read it. It would not have occurred to me to try to read it on my own, which would have taken some doing. It was just work material. My time at the Ministry was just a job.”

Tonks asked, “Is there something special about the file? I mean, other than its historical relevance?”

Dumbledore said very slowly, “The Wand on its own is terrifically powerful. It is the most potent Wand in the world. But when paired with its dossier, and the vast catalogue of prophecies and spells within, the owner becomes all-powerful. He--or she--who possesses both objects can defy death.”

Harry asked, wide-eyed, “Defy death?”

“He or she becomes immortal.”

Harry’s eyes opened even wider. “W-Why? How? Does the power . . . only last while the holder of the Wand has the dossier?”

Sirius pressed, too. “And does the ‘holder’ of the dossier have to be literally holding the file, or . . . do the Wand and the file have to touch, or what?”

Dumbledore looked a little perplexed, and looked at Snape. “I’m not exactly sure. Harry, to your question: No one really knows the answer. No one has ever held the file and the Wand together. When the Wand was first created by Antioch Peverell, his brothers Cadmus and Ignotus assembled the magical beginnings of the dossier. The three made a pact, agreeing to keep the paperwork separate from the Wand, for safety. Antioch took possession of the Wand, and the file was split in half: Cadmus took one part and Ignotus the other. Upon the death of Cadmus, the two halves of the file were reunited. The surviving brothers continued to keep the file and Wand separate as they passed them down through family. Over the years many sources have been added to it. The Peverell descendants placed the dossier in the Ministry Archives, where it remained until 1988.

“I am merely repeating the lore, ancient and recent, that has circulated about the Elder Wand. I have long believed that the dossier is equipped to recognize . . . the Wand’s rightful user, and if he or she possesses the file, reads it faithfully, comprehends its meanings--that person achieves the most exceptional status as one who defies death.”

Sirius frowned. “It all sounds odd. A bit nebulous.”

Tonks nodded her agreement.

Mad-Eye scowled, and said, “Bloody daft system efya ask me. How does the thing hold together? The file, I mean? Is it a buncha scraps of paper, or what? Wouldn’t it be scattered by now?”

Dumbledore shrugged and smiled. “The dossier is bound, is it not, Clarissa? Rather like a huge book. But parts of it may be loose.”

She nodded. “It’s a large leather bound folio, like a fancy binder, with pockets, and parchment pages.” She looked thoughtfully from Dumbledore to Snape to Sirius and then back again. Snape’s face was placid. Eyes, flat and black.

Harry had become impatient with all the Wand lore talk. He addressed Dumbledore. “Sir, I am really wondering what we are doing to ensure student safety at Hogwarts. What can we do to fight Voldemort effectively when he strikes?”

Dumbledore looked at Harry thoughtfully. “Well, we are monitoring the safety of students all the time. . . .”

Sirius put in, “And I am picking up bits of intelligence from places I visit around Hogsmeade.”

Snape looked at him skeptically. “Really? What have you gleaned, lately? Or, at all?”

“Most places allow me in when I am Padfoot. Just recently . . . Actually, I prefer not to say anymore right at the moment.” Sirius looked at Clarissa, somewhat deflated. But she noted that his dark brown eyes were troubled.

Harry spoke up. “I’m not sure we should just be waiting around, like sitting ducks. Can we lure him out? Wouldn’t it pay to go on the offensive? And maybe it would be best for us to do that before he gets his hands on this dossier textbook thing.”

Sirius looked at Harry proudly, eyes merry again. “That’s thinking, Harry!” And to himself he thought, So like James, it’s frightening.

Harry beamed at his Godfather.

Dumbledore said quite slowly and deliberately, “Indeed, Harry, you may have a good idea there. We have at least two things _at this table_ that Voldemort wants.”

“What are they?” Tonks asked, looking around the table. “Oh, well, yes--Dumbledore, you have the Wand, of course.”

He took out the long, knobbed wand. “Yes, the Elder Wand is very much an object Voldemort would like to possess.”

“And?” Tonks pressed.

“And Harry. He wants Harry’s life,” said Dumbledore softly. “It has been clear from the beginning.” Dumbledore sighed and turned to Harry. “I must apologize. You should perhaps have learned sooner what I am about to tell you. I was, for years, swayed by those around me who believed that you should not know the truth. But the time has come.”

Molly Weasley cleared her throat to say something.

“Yes, Molly?” said Dumbledore.

“No--no, nevermind, Albus. Continue,” she said.

Harry’s eyes fairly danced. “The truth about what?”

“The truth about the night your mother and father died. The night you got that scar.” Dumbledore pointed at Harry’s forehead.

“Yes, sir?” Harry’s eyes had become shiny and wet. He licked his lips and adjusted his sitting position on the hard kitchen bench.

“There was a prophecy told to me by Sybill Trelawney just before you were born, Harry: _‘The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches . . . born as the seventh month dies . . . and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not . . . and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives. . . .’_ ”

Clarissa sucked in her breath and felt her eyes widen. Sirius’s colour was rising with anger as he tapped the table in front of him. But her attention was drawn quickly to Severus who had become distinctly unwell-looking. His pale skin glowed fairly greenish and clammy. Snape stood up hastily, mumbled something about needing some air, and strode quickly out of the kitchen. She heard the front door open and bang shut.

Harry was looking around the table but returned his gaze to Dumbledore. “Does everyone here know this prophecy about me?”

Remus, Tonks, Clarissa and Sirius shook their heads No. Sirius looked downright furious.

“Molly and Arthur were aware. And I took Mad-Eye into my confidence years ago. The Auror’s Office has provided special security protections for you. And Severus has known. From the beginning.”

Sirius was shaking his head, long wavy dark hair wagging back and forth. He stood up forcefully, jerking the bench back and rocking Remus, Tonks, and Clarissa with him. His fist landed on the table with a loud boom.

“Bloody hell, Dumbledore. Why keep something like this from--from Harry? All this time? He has a right . . . to know something so . . . central to his life!”

For Sirius it wasn’t just the idea that Harry didn’t know this prophecy existed till now; it was hurtful that _he_ didn’t know. And Snape, of all people, _did_ know.

Dumbledore’s gaze was calm. “I agree, Sirius. The release of this information is overdue. But perhaps not by much. He is soon to be a man. Now he knows.”

Sirius walked out with an exasperated “Bloody bollocking hell!” His wiry figure rammed into Snape who tried unsuccessfully to move out of the way, as Kreacher croaked percussively from beneath the stairs, “Can ya keep the noise level to a dull roar, please? I need my beauty rest, ya know!”

Returning to the table, Snape looked a tiny bit better than when he had gone out.

Dumbledore turned to Harry. “Do you understand what Madame Trelawney’s prophecy means?”

Harry spoke calmly and evenly. “Well, I think I do. I think it means . . . that either I have to kill him or he kills me.”

Dumbledore nodded.

“But what power do I have that Lord Voldemort ‘knows not’?”

Dumbledore looked around the table. “To me, that is clear.”

Harry reflected, but still looked puzzled.

Dumbledore put his hand on Harry’s arm and squeezed. “The powers unknowable to Lord Voldemort are clear if you look carefully about you.”

Harry nodded. And then smiled. “I understand. I have friends. And . . . caregivers.” He glanced a bit shyly at Sirius.

Clarissa reached across the narrow table, and patted Harry’s hand.

Harry spoke eagerly to the group. “Dumbledore said . . . that there are two things that Voldemort desires: the Wand, and my life. Do you think . . . there is a way to lure him to us using me, or the Wand? Or both?”

Sirius walked back into the kitchen, and stood behind Harry, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Lupin and Tonks looked at each other and smiled. Clarissa was enjoying the look on Harry’s face, and Sirius’s evident pride. Mad-Eye, Shacklebolt and Dumbledore were calmly nodding. Snape was inscrutable. Arthur Weasley was glancing at his wife nervously.

Molly exploded in exasperation. “Well, someone’s got to speak sense! This is the most nutter idea I’ve ever heard discussed ’round this table, and I’ve been around a long time. I cannot understand you all. Even considering using Harry as bait! It’s--it’s--bloody preposterous!”

“Well, maybe we should consider it, Mrs. Weasley. After all, I’m what he wants. I was the subject of the July Prophecy. . . . I’m the one whose destiny is linked to his. Why should everyone’s life be put at risk?”

Molly sat down, shaking her head. “No way. Not on my watch!”

Dumbledore spoke slowly. “There has been a lot for all of you to take in tonight. I move that we allow time to reflect on the options that may present themselves in the coming days. I thank you all for coming, and for the good work that you continue to do in service to the Order of the Phoenix.”

Dumbledore turned to Snape as the Hogwarts contingent prepared to return to the Three Broomsticks. “Severus, please portkey out first so that you can get to the castle and make sure that all is safe for our return. We will have myself, Sirius and Clarissa to cover Harry on the road.”

Snape nodded and strode out, black cape swirling.

Sirius held Clarissa back just a bit as the others trooped out toward the portkey site down the street from 12 Grimmauld Place. His eyes seemed unusually intense.

“I need to talk to you alone. Tonight. I’ll come to your room to tell you what I overheard at the Hog’s Head earlier today.”

Clarissa nodded, her mind whirling. What had he heard?

 

The portkey sucked the wind out of her briefly and she was thrown to the ground upon landing in front of the familiar pub.

She got up and brushed off her cloak, irritated. “Blimey. Daft system!” she grimaced.

What she heard next made her heart plummet.

Sirius bellowed to her with clear urgency: “Clarissa! Grab Harry! Run! Up the road! NOW!”

Dumbledore’s voice followed her brother’s. “Clarissa! Take Harry with you! Run!”

Harry was right next to her. He turned towards his Godfather and was about to take off in Sirius’s direction, but Clarissa grabbed his arm roughly.

“It’s Bellatrix!” Harry yelled. “Sirius! Look out! Death Eaters!”

Clarissa dragged Harry up the road in the direction of the castle. “Come, Harry!” He complied, still looking behind them. Clarissa hooked Harry’s arm firmly with her own while she readied her wand with the other.

She pulled him roughly. “Harry! This way! Now!”

Her voice and the expression in her eyes convinced him. So did the wand fire whizzing past his head. He started to run with her.

Now Clarissa instinctively got behind him, her hand pushing on his back. She ran as hard as she could; as Harry kept craning his head around to see behind them, he was slowed. “C’mon, Harry, c’mon, move, move, move!” she breathed at him.

Behind them, Dumbledore yelled something at Sirius but with the blood rushing and pounding in her head, she couldn’t make out the words. Flashes of colourful light whizzed past her head and past Harry, making crashing noises when trees and the ground were struck nearby.  Small, brief fires were springing up where the wand strikes hit.

Harry turned, trying to see around Clarissa. His face registered panic.

“No, Harry!” She pushed him forward.

But in the next moment Harry peeled away from her grasp and wheeled back, running again towards Sirius. Clarissa made a wild grab for Harry as below, a flash of wandlight from the extended arm of Bellatrix Lestrange hit Sirius in the center of the chest, and he crumpled.

Harry stopped and shouted, “No! NO! NO!”

Clarissa lunged hard and grabbed his legs. Harry hit the ground with a crunch and a loud grunt.

“We can’t, Harry!” she shouted, holding his legs. 

As she seized onto him, her arms seemed to grow icy. In the moment that she had seen Bellatrix’s hit to Sirius, she knew it was all over for her brother. Sirius was dead.

Wand fire resumed overhead. Clarissa now threw her body forward fully covering Harry’s as fiery streaks whizzed past them. She wrapped her arms over her own head.

Amidst the wand shots, she could hear Bellatrix singing a deranged melody over the body of her cousin. “I’ve killed Sirius Black! La la la la la! Goodbye, good Sir Sirius. La la la! Ho ho  ho!”

By peering under her arm, Clarissa could just see that beyond Bellatrix, Dumbledore was fighting off two Death Eaters at once with deft wand shots. As she watched, one of the Death Eaters crumpled; the other continued to shower Dumbledore with wand fire. But in another moment, Bellatrix and the remaining Death Eater whirled away into the sky. Dumbledore raced over to where Sirius lay, and knelt beside him.

Beneath Clarissa, Harry wept. The rise and fall of his body pinned beneath hers was violent as she too gave way to sobs, face down in the boy’s hair. Sliding off of him, she kept one arm wrapped around his back. With the other hand she grabbed the gravel of the road, digging her fingers into the cold hard ground.

 

 


	15. Women of the House

“Severus, thank you so much.” Albus was reclining in his bed as Snape finished wiping his face and wrapping his arm in a cloth bandage.

Snape’s face was disbelief. He whispered, “Albus. You are badly injured. Your hand. I fear it . . . it will not . . .”

“. . . Will not heal. I know, Severus.” He patted the younger man’s arm and smiled. “It was a lethal blow. How long do you think I have?”

Severus swallowed. “A fortnight. Perhaps two.”

Dumbledore nodded. “It is enough. . . .”

Snape wiped tears from his own face and sat down heavily next to the bed. His voice was still a whisper. “Albus. This night. What . . . what have I allowed to happen? I was just inside the castle. . . .” The moment he had received Dumbledore’s summons, he had run full tilt until he came upon Clarissa and Harry in the road.

“Dear man. Stop the line of blame immediately. You warned Sirius; he chose to pay no heed. And tonight you did exactly what I asked of you. Besides, your cover would have been blown, had you been with us. And . . . Severus, Clarissa was in fine form. Did exactly what the situation required. Smartly. Instinct took over, no doubt.” His face shone proudly.

“But . . . Albus . . . her brother. . . .”

“Yes. It’s a terrible loss to her. And to Harry. And to the Order.” Dumbledore’s face clouded.

 

“There, there, dear.” Minerva wiped Clarissa’s face again and handed her a glass of water.

Clarissa drank a little from the offered glass and set it down next to the bed. Her face was swollen, bruised, and bloody. She had been alternately crying or trying not to cry for what seemed like forever; Minerva had removed fragments of gravel that had been ground into her forehead and cheek from tackling Harry.

She stared up at the ceiling above her bed. “I . . . I can’t believe he’s gone.” Tears welled up, again. All those years in Azkaban, she thought. All that time we kept each other going. To survive all that and finally . . . be out in the world, only to be struck down by your own demented, bloodthirsty cousin. What’s the _fucking_ use of pretending that we are ever safe? she thought. What does safety look like in this world?

Minerva wiped Clarissa’s face again.

Clarissa turned towards her, suddenly remembering what Sirius told her before they left Grimmauld Place. “He had something to tell me. Something he said was urgent.” She glanced back towards the parlor mirror visible through the short hallway leading from the bedroom. “Now I will never--he will never . . .”

“There, there, dear,” was all Minerva knew to say to console her friend.

 

All Hermione knew to say to console her friend was, “Harry, we are so sorry about Sirius.” She was allowed to pay a rare visit to the boys’ Gryffindor quarters; Professor McGonagall had no objection to letting Harry’s best female friend in, under the terrible circumstances. Harry had been crying off and on for over two hours.

“We’re really glad you’re okay, mate,” said Neville.

“Yeah. Thanks,” said Harry, woefully.

Ron looked morose. But he couldn’t resist trying to cheer his friend with a little teasing after the protracted seriousness. “Tell us again about how Ms. Black tackled you. Tackled you. That little woman!” Ron shook his head.

Hermione objected, “She’s not really so _little_ , Ron. Petite, yes. But powerful. She’s buff; I’ve seen her working out.”

“Yeah, she’s the dog’s bollocks, working out,” said Neville, reverently.

Harry had to turn away from them again, remembering what he had seen just before Clarissa tackled him.

Hermione handed Harry the tissue box. Ron and Neville looked down at the floor as Harry wiped his face and blew his nose noisily.

Hermione spoke up. “So, tomorrow you’ll be going away with Dumbledore? Do you know where he’s taking you?”

Harry shook his head. “He said he will keep it a secret. I won’t know the place, so that if Voldemort tried to read my mind again, he won’t get anything.”

 

Nagini lay peacefully at his master’s side. “Bellatrix. What exactly prompted you to kill your cousin before I gave . . . the order?” With one long, pale finger Voldemort stroked Bella from the point between her breasts up to her chin. Wild-eyed, she looked ecstatic and terrified at the same time.

“My Lord . . . I did well! I killed my own cousin! Sirius Black is _dead_.” She said the final word as if it would set any lover’s heart on fire.

“But you do not make these decisions on your own, Bella! You are not in charge here! And you, Alecto! Amycus! You will both answer to me later for this.”

The brothers bowed their heads low. “Yes, m’Lord,” they muttered simultaneously.

Bellatrix grabbed Voldemort’s hand and kissed it sensuously.

Around the table the others cleared their throats and adjusted cloaks. No one knew where to put their attention during these blatant displays.

Voldemort watched Bella for a few moments before growing bored. He waved her off, turning to stroke Nagini’s soft skin. “The Elder Wand must be our next focus. I need a wand that will not be stopped by patronuses. A doe! A _doe_ stopped me last time,” he said with chilling, childlike petulance, looking around the assemblage for sympathy.

Draco looked at his father and mother, sat up straighter, and smirked.

Igor Karkaroff’s dark eyes dropped and his chin started to nod towards his chest.

Snape spoke. “My Lord, you have already created a solid plan. Draco Malfoy will disarm--and kill--Dumbledore on the fifth of next month.”

“Yes, Severus. It is a momentous step.” A look of anticipation across the thin, pale face was quickly replaced by sadness. “But without the file . . . without the file, I will not have achieved . . . _everything_.” He flicked away the stroking hand of Bellatrix on his. She sulked.

“But of course, my Lord. I am working on locating the file for you.”

Voldemort brightened, and spoke matter-of-factly. “Severus, you were going to try to read Clarissa Black, to find out all she knows of the missing dossier.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Lucius Malfoy looked desperately uncomfortable. His wife, Narcissa, who sat next to him, pursed her perfectly lined lips. Her beautifully made up eyes flashed. She tossed her luxurious head of hair that was platinum blond with a thick black stripe from the crown.

Voldemort continued: “The younger sister of Sirius Black. Does she recall anything of the time the file was at the Ministry?”

“I do not know, Lord.”

“But you are attempting to read her.” Voldemort’s voice became so thin it was a strand of razor-sharp thread.

Karkaroff looked suddenly alert.

Snape spoke softly. “But of course. She is quite a skilled defender, you know.”

“Severus. You need to delve into what she knows about the dossier. Easterly’s interrogation . . . revealed woefully little. Perhaps you might . . . penetrate her more effectively than Easterly did. Be charming, Severus. I’m sure you can be . . . charming if you try.” Voldemort looked around the table to see if others enjoyed his attempt at humor.

Hollow snickers were slow to reverberate around the table. Lucius laughed a little too loudly. Beautiful, perfectly groomed Narcissa fumed silently.

Voldemort turned suddenly to Bellatrix. She was seated very close to him, hands hidden from view. She gazed adoringly up at his filmy, thin face.

“Bella! Not now! We have work here!” The voice was lethal. She jumped and uttered a soft scream as she was kicked hard under the table.

Bellatrix sat blinking at him with wet eyes full of self-pity. “I was trying to relax you, my Lord--”

“Women! Women of the House of Black. I don’t know why I bother keeping you around, when . . .” He turned. “What is it about them, Lucius? Why do we put up with these _femmes fatales_?”

Lucius looked rather ill as he forced a chuckle. He felt Narcissa’s swift kick to his shin and winced in pain.

 

At the portkey on the edge of Hogsmeade, Snape glanced inside the pub and was amazed to see Clarissa sitting at the bar.

Entering, he approached. “Miss Black. It’s very late. I really don’t think it is wise--”

“Oh! Severus Snape! Well, blimey! Sit and do have a drink with us!” Clarissa’s arms were barely keeping her propped up at the edge of the bar. Rosmerta was on the other side, and raised her eyebrows at Snape. When Clarissa looked to the far side of the room and called out a request to the jazz trio, Rosmerta grimaced towards him, shaking her head.

“Very bad,” mouthed Rosmerta.

“Clarissa. We really ought to get you back to the castle.”

“And you think . . . what? That I need your help? I can take care of myself, sir. I’ve done it before and I will do it . . . from now on. I am all on my own, now.”

Snape looked around the place in desperation. He heard voices in the adjoining room and walked over, leaving Clarissa blathering drunkenly to the barmaid about men and their arrogance.

Hagrid sat at a table with Argus Filch. Snape strode over to them and held a quick conversation. Hagrid nodded and put a beefy hand on Snape’s shoulder. “Right. Wouldn’t dream of lettin’ her go back to the castle alone, Professor. We’re keepin’ an eye on her.”

 

Following cursory adorations to Voldemort, Severus Snape tried in vain to sleep. He nervously reached to the bedside to check the map one more time, out of habit, though he knew Harry was still at Dumbledore’s remote seaside cottage. Albus wisely had taken Harry away from school for a rest, and some fatherly attention, following the hard blow of Sirius’s death. He also imagined that he would want to prepare Harry for the grim loss ahead.

With another glance Snape saw that Clarissa was safely in her room.

Disquieting images permeated Snape’s mind. Sirius lying dead in the road near the Three Broomsticks. Cedric still and white on the stretcher as he carried the dead boy. Clarissa’s inert body on the beach after Easterly’s attack. Clarissa lying next to Harry on the gravel road. Out of torturous visions of the past, he saw Lily’s broken body splayed out in front of Harry’s crib. In his head he heard the long wail that had escaped him that night in Godric’s Hollow.

He then saw Madeline. Ghostly, wan Madeline Creech handing him the Elder Wand file. “For you,” she said. “It’s for you, Severus. I took it for you! I risked everything. _You_ should be its Master.”

The next image that presented itself was Madeline’s body floating face down in the lake.

He knew the dusty, thick file resided in a box labelled HIST 17C 0328 in the Seventeenth Century Muggle Literature Manuscripts section of the Phineas Nigellus Black Collection of the Hogwarts Library. The file was carefully disguised, of course. If anyone should examine it, the cover showed it to be a collection of early poems of Christopher Middleton--an obscure Jacobean poet who had not been studied at the school for a generation, Snape was sure. There was little chance anyone would seek out the man’s early works, but if the file were taken from the shelf, the charm on his map showing the box’s location would change from blue to orange. In ten years, the charm’s colour had not changed, other than when Snape himself checked the file. As a further security measure, the dossier was protected by a series of charms that obscured the words of its pages, rendering the material illegible to all but himself. He alone knew the code that converted the words. A copy of the charm code was locked in his safebox in Gringott’s.

Now his mind roamed back to Voldemort’s comment directed at Bellatrix in the meeting. Turning to Lucius, Voldemort had said, “Why do we put up with these women of the House of Black, when . . .” When what? He had not finished the comment. What did Lord Voldemort know about the Prophecy? Did he know that an entire section of the Elder Wand dossier was devoted to the House of Black? Or was it just an offhand comment? Snape considered the uncomfortable chance that the interrogation of Clarissa by Easterly had revealed more than Voldemort was telling. In that case, why would Voldemort want Snape to interrogate Clarissa? Maybe as a test of Snape’s faithfulness, to see if he would pursue and hand over the information. After all, Voldemort had kept Easterly’s identity a secret from even Snape himself. That is Voldemort’s way, he mused. Loyal to none.

Had Lucius’s notes indicated to Voldemort that the House of Black was central to the Dark Lord’s future?

But it was in fact possible--Snape’s mind reeled at the thought--it _was_ conceivable that Clarissa knew far more than she was letting on, to anyone. Perhaps she had Easterly, Voldemort and Dumbledore all fooled. She certainly could have read that file in Lucius’s office. There had been ample opportunity. Perhaps she had learned the file’s whereabouts. (But how? _Had_ she known Madeline? Had they shared drinks, idle talk?) Perhaps the teaching job at Hogwarts was purely her cover. . . .

Snape could easily envision the House of Black, which figured so prominently in the prophesied future of the Elder Wand, in a power struggle over its mastery. Lucius, Narcissa, Draco, and Bellatrix on one side . . . Clarissa, perhaps with Nymphadora on the other; of course, Sirius had been with that team.

Snape felt a powerful urge to get up and pay a quick visit to the Black Dark Arts Collection. Just to be sure . . . He looked again at the map. He had no reason to worry. . . . The charm indicating the file’s location was calm and blue. Snape sighed. The file sat where it had for the past decade, dusty and disguised. He shut his eyes and willed his mind to go blank.

 

 


	16. Clarity

Harry spoke to the Headmaster as they ate dinner in their cozy cottage quarters. “Sir, may I ask you something? About the July Prophecy?”

“Anything, Harry,” answered Dumbledore.

“How were you sure that it . . . was about me, and not Neville? You do know, I am sure, that his birthday is the day before mine. But the Prophecy didn’t specify . . .”

“Of course, you are right, Harry. We didn’t know for sure, and neither did Voldemort, until he took the chance. You were clearly the boy indicated, because of what happened when he tried to kill you.”

“What exactly did happen, Headmaster?”

“You . . . deflected his killing curse.”

Harry looked thoughtful. “Headmaster . . . I want to know . . . How were my parents and I betrayed? How did Voldemort know how to find my family?”

Dumbledore wrinkled his brow. “That is a complicated story, and not all of it is mine to tell. Later.” He patted the boy’s arm.

Harry nodded. And sighed. So many times when he talked to Dumbledore, he just had to wait to know much.

 

Clarissa found herself wandering the castle late on a Tuesday evening. She held a stack of papers that needed her attention, but her quarters felt . . . stifling, and lonely. The mirror hanging in her parlor had been a constant reminder of Sirius’s absence. She needed to get out. The pub was certainly off limits for a while; the last night she was there, the hangover was almost as bad as the one after Easterly’s attack. For several days, she had abstained from drinking any alcohol at all. New territory. The clarity was . . . strange, but powerful.

She passed through the Gothic arches at the entrance to the library wing. The Hogwarts Library was perhaps her favourite place in the school. As a student, she loved going there, even though studies weren’t her very top priority. She enjoyed the quiet, and the musty smell of old books and parchment. And she loved getting lost in the mazes of stacks and reading rooms.

It was late. The library was closed. But she waved her wand at the door; as faculty, she could use the library any time she wished, day or night. Lamps flickered on automatically as she passed through the front, public areas, where she saw the stacks of faculty directory archives. She was possessed by the sudden urge to look up Madeline Creech. She knit her brow in concentration. What year did she die? Right after I left the Ministry, or around there. . . . She grabbed the slim Faculty Listings for 1986-87, 1987-88 and 1988-89 for good measure.

She went to the furthest recesses of the main reading room and found a narrow passageway in the far left corner with a sign above it that read: “To PNBDA Collection.” Yes, that will do.   

I haven’t been back here in years! she mused. The area was off limits to most students, without written permission from a faculty member. But she was a Black; she and Sirius had been allowed access whenever they wanted. She assumed Draco now enjoyed the same privilege.

She sighed realizing how elitist this system was. As a girl, she never questioned the unfairness of it.

But now I’m going in as a teacher, not just because I’m privileged by my name, she thought with some satisfaction, as she waved her wand around the small doorway at the end of the corner that had a small brass plate which read, “Phineas Nigellus Black Dark Arts Collection. Faculty and Family Members Only.”

“ _Lumos,_ ” she said, lighting her way with her wand. She flicked her wand toward the lights and a warm glow was cast around the room. She ignited the small reading lamp at the side of the long table which stretched the width of the cubicle.

As she wandered through the dusty stacks, she recalled discussing her family connection with Snape at the Three Broomsticks.

Seems like aeons ago, she thought to herself. In reality, it had only been three fortnights.

Her hand rested on a familiar spot in the Seventeenth Century Manuscripts. _Paradise Lost_ by John Milton, and next to it, the 1673 _Poems &c. Upon Several Occasions_. Hogwarts’ archives housed the rare, original folios; she remembered that in her favourite class, Muggle Literature, Professor Cromer had gushed over the fact that Clarissa’s family had made these handwritten editions available to students. Well, to those students who had the right name, anyway.

As she pulled the dust-laden volumes off the shelf, a smoky-looking puff was released into the small study space. She always loved Milton. What was it about him? His race against blindness? The raw brilliance of his poetic muse? Having the balls to retell the Bible, making the villain of the story the tragic hero? Placing the second heavy volume on the table, it fell open to Sonnet XIX. “But of course,” she thought. “I read this all the time in high school.” She wondered if anyone else had taken it off the shelf since she had been a student.

When I consider how my light is spent,

          Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,

          And that one Talent which is death to hide,

          Lodg’d with me useless, though my Soul more bent

To serve therewith my Maker. . . .

          And post o’er Land and Ocean without rest:

          They also serve who only stand and wait.

 It struck her now as strange that she gravitated towards this overtly religious writer, and later would study Easter European Mysticism--when she herself had never believed in God. But she always had been fascinated with beauty, with art, with the power of words to move people. And words change how we see the world. . . . She recalled Professor Cromer discussing Milton’s use of the verb “spent” in reference to time--an unusual usage for the period. “Of course, we say it now all the time: spending time, wasting time, how well am I using my time,” Clarissa thought. “But Milton was one of the first writers to configure time this way, as something that could be used, or wasted, like a commodity.” The memories of school life flooded her mind. “Those Muggles really knew how to write,” she thought. They seemed to be at least part-wizard. She recalled a paper she had written in her sixth-year Muggle Lit symposium on the true identity of William Shakespeare: “Is the Bard Wizard, Half-Blood, or Muggle?” No one had ever been able to adequately answer _that_ question.

Then she turned to _Paradise Lost._ “Satan turned tragic hero! The perfect diversion from grading papers!” Opening to the first page of Milton’s Magnum Opus, she sucked in her breath. There on a sheet of thin, inserted parchment was her overly stylized, left-slanted high school handwriting, familiar like an old friend, but not much like her randomly sprawling penmanship now: _“The world isn’t split into good people and Death Eaters. We’ve all got both light and dark inside us. What matters is the part we choose to act on. That’s who we really are.”--Sirius Black, 1978_. Clarissa remembered writing the words, spoken to her by her brother when she was a new student. His last year of school. “That’s such an essential Sirius concept,” she thought. “Of course I would write it, leave it in here. It’s the same idea as Milton’s. . . .” She realized in a rush how much she owed her brother for her own life views . . . and then she put her head down on the desk. Sobs wracked her compact frame. The waves of raw grief were slow to subside.

Just as she had gathered herself to read Milton’s iconic invocation, “Of man’s First Disobedience and the Fruit/ Of that Forbidden Tree . . . Sing, Heavenly Muse,” Clarissa heard footfalls in the corridor leading to the reading room. She stood, grabbing her wand, holding it up in a defensive stance. Severus Snape appeared in the tiny doorway, darkly filling the frame.  A long piece of parchment was rolled up in his hand.

“Oh, Snape! You scared me.” She breathed out, relieved, and lowered her wand. She quickly wiped her face and sat down again.

His eyes darted over the materials she had out in front of her on the table, resting momentarily behind her at the empty space on the shelf of Seventeenth Century Manuscripts. “Clarissa . . . What are you doing here at this hour?”

“I’m _reading_.” What does it look like I’m doing?--Just here in the library, building a rocket ship to the moon, you see.

“This place isn’t . . . safe for you. . . . ”

“Why not?” Her frayed nerves felt as if they would jump right out of her skin.

He avoided answering her. “What are you reading?” He indicated the stack of books at the table. He did not smile; his brow was knit tensely but his eyes were wide.

“Why do you care?” What is this? she thought, the Salem Witch Trials?--He’s perfectly dressed for the occasion.

His voice grew icy. “I asked, what are you reading?”

She breathed out slowly and audibly before answering. “Milton. _Paradise Lost._ An old favourite.” She tossed her head a little to one side and raked her hand through her curls before crossing her arms over her chest and leaning back in her chair.

He blinked and looked at the stack of faculty directories next to her. Gesturing towards them with the rolled parchment, he asked, “Why do you have those?”

“Look, Snape, suppose you tell me why _you_ are here.”

He paused. “I was simply concerned for your well-being.”

She stared hard at him. Leaning forward, she rested her elbows on the table, holding forearm in forearm, studying his closed face. An idea struck her. She rose out of her seat and peered up at him. Her hands, white-knuckled, gripped the table’s edge. “How the bloody hell did you even know where I was?”

His hand which held the partially rolled parchment suddenly dropped to his side. “What is that?” She leaned in towards him.

Snape tried to tuck the map away but it caught in the bulky fabric of his cape. And she was too quick. She deftly snatched it from his hand and pulled away, out of his reach.

Snape spoke desperately, eyes wide. “Clarissa. Give me that back.”

She wheeled from the table. “Oh, no. Let me see. What have we here?” She waved it at him, and then unrolled it. She stared at it blankly.

“That is my personal property and you have no right--” He was moving hastily around the table towards her.

“I know what this is! My brother had one just like it! It’s a Marauder’s Map!” She turned to face the stacks right behind her, held the map up against them with one hand, pointed her wand with the other and spoke: “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good!”

As it had moments ago, the map revealed only the outlines of every room of the castle, including the library. No moving parts appeared. Clarissa thought to herself, Well, no shit, Martha Corey, _he_ wouldn’t use the Marauder’s password.

Snape edged up against her, his face darkening, nostrils flaring. She leaned back against the bookstacks, rolling the map, then pinning it behind her back.

“So, you saw me on your schoolboy map? What the bloody hell! Are you stalking me? What kind of a sick game are you playing?” Her voice rose defiantly and her wide dark eyes flashed violet fire.

Snape grasped behind her trying to retrieve the rolled parchment. He clutched clumsily at her arm as she flung the heavy paper against the stacks on the opposite wall. A crunching noise was followed by the papery slap of the roll hitting the floor.

“That’s what I think . . .” she blurted through the layered frustrations of her world: twisted scenes of Sirius being shot down before her eyes . . . of Easterly pulling her mind around like a dancing puppet . . . of too many mornings filled with the dull regret of a hangover . . . “of your silly map.” But her voice trailed into breathy softness as she felt her shoulders slump, her body draining out. His grip on her arm relaxed, but his hand stayed, then moved up to her shoulder, then was under her hair, at the back of her neck. His face hovered over hers. She tried to breathe but it was like the wind was being sucked out of her.

He leaned in closer, eyes flashing from obsidian to chestnut.

Finally breathing in, she could smell the spicy dry cedar of the black wool tunic. Or was it just _him?_

The tangle of nerves at the low center of her belly softened and warmed. Reaching up, she wrapped her free hand around his neck, pulling his mouth firmly to hers. She was pressed hard against the book stacks as a row of books behind her gave way.

. . . And everything inside her was giving way as well. The horrors of the past several days receded: Easterly’s attack. The stinging loss of her brother. New visions of Madeline Creech. Snape following her here . . . What was happening? Mere seconds ago she felt she had no control over anything at all . . . and was ready to explode with fury. Now her anger and fear melted into this embrace that flooded her body with warmth, and she knew only one thing for sure: kissing Severus Snape was what she wanted in this moment more than anything in all the world.

 

 


	17. Next?

Clarissa Black stood very straight at the front of the room as she waited for quiet and eye contact from her students. Only then did she speak.

“Class, today we’ll have your group presentations on the Reformation’s impact on European wizarding purity. During the presentations, those in the audience will focus your full attention on the group at hand. Chatting means points off for _you!_ I will allow five minutes to assemble your notes and consult in your groups before we hear from the first panel: Padma, Hermione, Draco, Hannah. Five minutes of final prep begins: _Now._ ”

Student chatter erupted as the class scurried into their groups. Ms. Black turned to make homework notes on the board. While she was humming softly to herself she became aware that the room had grown completely quiet. Curious, she turned around.

Severus Snape stood in the doorway. Students had stopped in the middle of what they were doing to stare at Professor Snape visiting another teacher’s classroom.

“Professor Snape,” Clarissa said cheerily. “What may we do for you?”

“Miss Black . . . So sorry to disturb . . . whatever _this_ activity is.”  Sweeping the scene, his black eyes cast a chill around the room.

The classroom reverberated with giggles.  The chaos of preparing a group presentation was obviously unfamiliar to Snape.

“Not a problem,” she said. She waited for him to state his mission.

“I wondered if perchance you had a spare copy of Gimelddgeon’s _Classical History_ that I might borrow.”

“You are more than welcome to mine,” she said, turning to the bookshelves behind her desk and walking to the back of the room to hand it to him, looking up into his all-business face.

He took the book from her and bowed a small bow. “Thank you so much.” His eyes now gleamed with just a touch of mischief. She blushed faintly as she turned back to the class.

“You have two minutes left!”

The class reverted to its raucous level of noise.

Within the first group readying themselves, Hermione looked at each classmate and said, importantly, “Imagine Snape, reading Gimelddgeon’s! I think Ms. Black is expanding his horizons.”

Draco guffawed. “Oh, please! Snape’s horizons being expanded by that bossy cow. That’s rich, Hermione.”

Hermione remained smug as Ms. Black called “Time!” and the four went to the front.

During the first presentation, Clarissa could not help but notice how pale and drawn Draco appeared. Dark patches underscored his eyes. During the presentation he twitched constantly; in an effort to appear calmly confident, his roving hands and jittery, jerky movements belied the reality. But with Hermione as their clear leader, the multi-house group did a very solid job in illuminating key insights regarding the effect of the Reformation on wizarding bloodlines.

 

At the end of Potions class that same day, Snape asked Draco Malfoy to see him in his office. As Draco packed up his things he dropped his textbook, and then his pencils clattered along the floor. He cursed under his breath.

Draco followed Snape out.

Snape sat at his desk with his back turned. With one arm extended behind him, he motioned Draco in.

“Shut the door,” he said, back still turned to the pale boy who was shifting his weight from one foot to the other as Snape wrote something at the desk.

Snape turned slowly in his swivel chair to face him. “Draco. I must urge you to restrain yourself in public places. Were you in the Hog’s Head last Sunday afternoon? Talking about your recent assignment from the Death Squad?”

Draco’s already sickly-pale face lost another level of colour. “How--how--how did you know that?”

Snape sneered, “I know things. I know people who know things. But you need to be _more careful._ You will get yourself and others in trouble. If you want adult responsibilities, you have to act more like an adult.”

Draco pulled up a chair close to Snape’s and sat down, crossing his legs in an effort to appear nonchalant. Then he leaned in close to his teacher. “What do you think of it? The old man . . . Some say I’m too young to have this job. But I’m up to it.”

The boy’s eyes were a tad too shiny. Leaning back, resting his arms on the chair, Snape eyed his student narrowly. He wondered if Draco had slept at all the past few nights. “Do you really think you can do it? It’s not so easy to kill as you might think.”

“Oh, of course I can! I really want to do it.” Draco rested his arms on his chair, Snape-fashion, as he spoke. “It’s--it’s important that we follow through with what we believe, with what we are taught. We have to stand for something in this world.” Draco drew himself up and puffed his chest out. His eyes jumped from Snape to various objects around the room.

Snape tapped the arms of both chairs very slowly and rhythmically. He said, “Draco. Learn to play your part more . . . coolly. Act as if . . . this were not your first appearance in the big arena.”

Draco nodded, saying, “Sure, sure, you’re right. I do--I do--realize I can still take a lesson or two from you. Sir.” Then Draco lowered his voice and leaned way in, very near Snape’s chin.

So close, Draco looked worse. His skin was uneven with dry red patches, and he had a thin crust of dried saliva in the corner of each side of his mouth. His breath was rank.

“So, who do you think will go next, after Dumbledore? Dad says there will be more. _I’ve_ heard it might be Clarissa Black. Maybe I’ll get to do it, if I do well November fifth.”

Snape blinked down at him, his face blank.


	18. Dinner by Dobby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am grateful to Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie for her TED Talk "The danger of a single story" (TED.com, October 2009) which inspired a concept in this chapter, and in several chapters hereafter.

Clarissa had been a little surprised by the dinner invitation from Severus. Pleasantly so. Since their meeting in the library, they had not seen each other outside the school day--but Snape was friendly enough and made eye contact when they passed one another in the corridors. There had been one lunchtime faculty meeting led by Minerva that offered her at least a chance to see him for an hour. And of course, there was also yesterday when he borrowed her Gimelddgeon’s. She was like a school girl, watching for him in the halls and feeling a flutter of excitement when she saw his tall, macabre figure approach. 

She was, however, conscious of restraining herself from making an overture. She had already made the first move--in a big way. And while she was no stranger to initiating romance, this was different. _He_ was different. Now she felt--almost shy. She simply wanted to see what would happen next.  There was no hurry. The last thing she wanted to do was pressure a man who seemed entirely unaccustomed to being kissed by a colleague in the Dark Arts Collection of the library. _They also serve who only stand and wait. . . ._

She didn’t have to wait long. He stopped in her office midday Friday to ask, would she be able to join him that evening for dinner? She accepted.

Now here she sat in her office, alone, eating her cheese sandwich and sipping black tea, anticipating an evening with Severus Snape, and thinking back to Tuesday night in the Phineas Nigellus Black reading room. . . .

The kiss had lasted for several minutes. Wonderful minutes. She remembered the firm pressure of his body against hers, the way he held her, all tension leaving. Then, they had separated, each holding both of the other’s hands silently. They had gazed into each other’s eyes until he finally he spoke, awkwardly. “Well. I see you’re safe. I should be getting back to my quarters.”

She had thought, Oh, I’m better than safe. She smiled. “I’m good.”

He had smiled, too, releasing her hands to smooth the front of his tunic. With a wave of his wand, books and documents that had been knocked to the floor were reshelved. One set of manuscripts, in a box, he placed on the shelf himself, next to the spot where she had removed the Milton volume. He picked up the map she had flung to the floor, and asked, “Will you be staying to read?”

She had said, “No, no. I think I’ll take Milton back to my room. My work here is done.” She smiled, and tucked the still-ungraded student essays into the bulky poetry folio.

She had walked out with him, returning the faculty directories as they exited the library. He had taken her hand. At the staircases leading to their separate areas of the castle, they paused, and he bent down to lightly kiss her cheek. And raising her hand, he had kissed it very gently. She recalled thinking, I’ll have more, please . . . but only said, somewhat wistfully, “Good night, Severus.” And they had parted.

 

Snape sat in his dungeon office eating his lunch of herbed cucumber salad and thinly sliced beef served au jus. And black tea. He wanted very badly to talk to Dumbledore about what Draco had told him. . . . About the library, he wasn’t sure what exactly he would tell his friend. What a surprising turn of events. Clarissa had kissed him. Would he have taken that bold step himself? They had been standing so close that he could feel the warmth of her body. Then she had kissed him. His mind reeled a bit as he recalled the sweet taste of her mouth and tongue, the wonderful pressure of her breasts against him, and the way her slim back and shoulders fit the crook of his arm as he held her, blood and energy flooding him.  

 _But you must be wary,_ said a small voice at the back of his head.   _She is a Black. She did not get to the file Tuesday night. But that does not mean she is not seeking it._

Now he heard Draco’s chilling words in his office. Clarissa was now on Voldemort’s list, if the boy got that right. Of course, Draco could be over-reaching, puffing up his own importance. _“Dad says there will be more.”_ Draco’s information was only whatever Lucius wanted his son to know. But in the pit of his stomach Snape felt a jolt of . . . of what? Hard, cold reality? His life had gotten exponentially more complicated with Clarissa’s kiss. Now with Dumbledore away, there was no one to discuss it with. In the near future he would no longer have his friend at all. A weight of sadness, a stone sinking down amidst tumultuous currents of strange new experience, settled in his chest.

Inviting Clarissa to dinner only seemed natural, in the absence of his best friend. He had debated where to go for a quiet meal. The pub would not do. . . . There was far too much danger now of being overheard; in fact, being out at all was risky. Death Eaters would report his activities, and while he could easily explain to Voldemort that he was keeping an eye on her, the risk to her person seemed unnecessary. But the elegant circular study where he and Albus had shared so many conversations seemed just right. Far warmer and lovelier than his own rooms, an invitation to join him in the Headmaster’s suite also felt less forward than inviting her downstairs.

 

Clarissa prepared for the evening carefully. She enjoyed a long bath after her interval workout up and down the castle road. As she listened to the Beatles (Revolver, their very best; she still believed all four had to be at least part wizards, like Milton), she shaved, put on her favourite lotion and picked out an understated but body-conscious ensemble: long wide-legged black pants with a short skirt overlay, a form-fitting plain black camisole that showed just a hint of cleavage, and a light pink tissue cardigan. Onto her feet she began to slip plain black ballet flats, then stopped. I’m so much shorter than Severus . . . maybe heels? It is a special occasion, after all. . . . She eyed a pair of black pumps in the closet. Lucius used to like it when I wore shoes like that at work. He called them my “come hither pumps.” But no. I’d rather just be completely at ease tonight. The flats went on. She picked out a delicate, understated gold necklace and small matching dangly earrings. The outfit was perfect: comfortable, and flattering, but without looking like she was trying too hard, she hoped. Finally, she sprayed just a little of her favourite scent into the air, and walked through. Not much. She wondered if the Potions Master approved of perfume? Best to keep it subtle, at any rate.

She paused at her desk to search for her clutch purse. The SS file was tucked away under a stack of letters. She pulled the folder out, flipping it open. The grim black-eyed subject stared up at her, a stranger. She sat down. I have a few extra minutes. Maybe I should refresh a few pertinent background details about the man. Paul McCartney was belting out “Got to Get You Into My Life” accompanied by a massive horn section. Singing and humming along, she had to stifle a laugh at the irony.

She read again about Snape’s origins. Cokeworth. Industrial English territory. The woman who gave birth to him was Eileen Prince, and the father--Tobias Snape. She considered. Mother a witch. A full-blood. Father a muggle. Both parents sounded perfectly dreadful. Several attached police reports of domestic violence dated back 35 years; she thumbed through them, sighing. This had to be a lonely and terrifying existence, especially for an only child. She glanced at her watch and realized she had better scoot, or else risk reporting late to the Headmaster’s study. The picture glowered up at her as she gathered the papers back.  In August the visage had struck her as cruel, hard, and wary. Extremely guarded. Gazing now at the black eyes in the lined, marble-white face, she saw an exhausted man who appeared at least ten years older than thirty-eight.

On her way out she passed the wall mirror and thought a moment about calling Sirius before the grief slapped her afresh.

“Damn,” she thought, biting her lip. Then she smiled. What would big brother think of the events that had taken place in Great-Great-Great Grandfather’s collection? She then said aloud, looking around the room as if he might be floating there, “Sirius, you’d better have been wrong about this man.” She flicked off the music.

She arrived at Dumbledore’s quarters at seven-thirty precisely.

After her knock, the door swung open. She lowered her gaze to find the tiny figure of Dobby at the door.

“Miss Clarissa, Dobby is so happy to see you! He is most thrilled to be preparing you a lovely dinner here with the only somewhat frightening Professor Snape!” Dobby’s enormous eyes looked a little wild as he forced a grin, and motioned her in.

Severus stood looking out the tall windows in the beautiful round study when Dobby led her in, announcing, “Miss Clarissa is here for you, sir!"

“Thank you, Dobby.” Snape smiled and dismissed the tiny servant. “A drink, Clarissa?”

“But of course.”

“I’m afraid your family whisky is not part of the house spirit collection. . . .”

She chuckled. “No, I suppose not. But whatever you are having will be fine.”

He poured her a glass of the dark red aperitif of which he and Dumbledore were fond, and handed her the goblet.

She eyed the dainty portion of crystal. Seriously. Grown men drink this? But a sip of the sweet, slightly medicinal herbal wine wasn’t half bad. Nothing wrong with expanding the palate, she thought.

Severus looked more or less as he always did. Black tunic, white cuffs, lots of buttons. . . . She admired the way his shiny blue-black hair framed his face. Had he gotten it trimmed up?

He led her to the far side of the room and up a small spiral staircase to a tiny recessed loft with a bay window looking west. Dusk had fallen and the view of the valley and forested hills was quickly giving way to blackness. In the center of the loft was a small dining table set for two with white table cloth, napkins, and a beautiful arrangement of red, yellow, white, and coral pink roses. And candles. Snape flicked his wrist to light them.

“Oh, Severus!” She breathed deeply of the rose-scented air. “You’ve made everything so lovely.”

He flashed a small smile and bowed gently. They both walked to the window to gaze out. The candles made twinkling reflections in the glass.

They sipped the vermouth in comfortable silence.  She found herself thinking how strange, that they had known each other such a short time. Late August seemed a world ago.

“So, Severus, tell me about the map you made. The watch-map. What do you call it?”

“Oh, the Meanders Map.”  He took the bulky parchment from an inner pocket and unrolled it, showing her the scrolled calligraphy. It was clearly a parody of the Marauders’ version.

“Clever,” she said.

“It’s not a Marauders’ Map, as you found out, though it’s based on the same concept. James, Sirius, Peter, and Remus  were quite ingenious to create their map using the Homonculous Charm--and its childish insult charm aimed at me.”

She remembered her brother and his friends talking about the barbs they had embedded in their map. If Snape got hold of it, ugly written messages would appear to him about his large neb--or calling him names. She felt a pang of anger at their cruelty--but then, she felt another wave of sadness about Sirius. She had seen his hard edges plenty of times, but she had rarely seen the downright nasty side of him that Snape knew. But nobody is a single story, she thought. Not Sirius, not Snape, not she herself. She stressed this concept whenever she could to her classes. History is not a monolithic set of facts, it’s a kaleidoscope of viewpoints and experiences woven together forming a complex tapestry. People are the same way; we are all a blend of good and bad, light and dark, as Sirius himself told her.

Thinking of Sirius’s quote written in the Milton book, she found herself suddenly wiping tears from her face. Snape’s eyes showed concern.

“I’m--I’m--sorry. I was thinking about my brother.”

He nodded slowly.

At that moment Dobby came scurrying up the stairs into the bay recess with a rather comically large tray of silver-domed serving dishes.

“Dinner is served, Master Snape and Miss Clarissa!” He set the tray on a small stand.

Severus guided Clarissa to the table and pulled the chair out for her. Then he sat, as Dobby whisked domed lids off of steaming food.

“Ummm, Dobby, it smells wonderful!” said Clarissa with genuine appreciation.

“Dobby wishes for Clarissa Black to admire his three cheese fettuccine and steamed vegetables! Then there is the fish course, here,” he indicated another domed dish. He bowed low. “Dobby will bring the wine, sir, then Dobby will do as he was asked by Master Snape and make himself scarce in the kitchen until it is time to serve dessert.”

Clarissa put a hand to her mouth, stifling a laugh. Dobby trundled off but returned a moment later with a bottle of white wine and a pitcher of water for the table. He bowed and left on padding feet.

Snape poured wine. They each helped themselves to the dishes Dobby had presented.

Clarissa began, “So tell me more about how you made the map.”

Severus readily complied, between bites. “I copied the Marauders’ process--and I also improved it. I added a Containment Charm and a mild Caterwauling Charm to alert me when certain people are in proximity, or are out of bounds.  If I wake up and need to know where Harry is, I just ask, and the map responds. It has . . . a voice.” He looked pleased with himself.

“So this is how you have kept tabs on Harry all along! The day Cedric died. . . .”

He nodded. “There was a time when you’d wonder if I were trying to harm Harry or protect him with this device.”

She stared at him, somewhat taken aback. She acknowledged he was right. She wondered, did Snape know, or guess, she had been sent there to spy on him? Or did he simply assume she had inherited her brother’s animosity? “It must feel good not to have to keep an eye on Harry while he is away with Dumbledore.”

“Yes. I am grateful for the freedom to enjoy _this_ evening, certainly.”

She smiled, liking the way he looked at her when he said it.

“But it also feels odd,” he admitted. “I’m so used to checking on him. I still do it out of habit.”

“But he’s off grounds. Your map can’t extend all over the planet, can it?”

“No. But I have this,” he said, reaching in his trousers pocket and pulling out a palm-sized piece of worn parchment edged with a simple leaf design, with words in calligraphy script: Wales. Ynys Mon. With Albus Dumbledore.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “That lets you know Harry’s whereabouts in shorthand. Even off-site. That’s the one I’ve seen you looking at sometimes in meetings.”

Snape nodded.

Dobby brought in dessert by and by, which was a rich chocolate torte topped with whipped cream. The house elf beamed at Clarissa’s rave reviews of the meal; and chocolate torte, she said, was her absolute favourite dessert.

Severus enjoyed watching Clarissa enjoy the dessert. She squeezed her eyes shut and sighed with pleasure, and then smiled at him between bites. “What are you thinking about?”

He gazed at her for several seconds before answering, his lips curled into a small smile. His head was cocked to one side as he spoke slowly. “I have been wanting to know more about . . . your studies in Bulgaria. Dumbledore is quite enamored with your work. He mentioned it, though briefly.”

She took the napkin to her mouth. “Bulgaria. Yes. I lived at Troyan, a refurbished Medieval monastery which now is also a college and meditation center. Very rustic. Lovely countryside. My focus was the history of Eastern Orthodox beliefs, within the context of the development of Wizarding Christianity. And . . . I studied yoga, learned folkloric dance . . . And oh, yes, Potions.” She paused to take another bite of chocolate torte.

He swallowed his own forkful before asking, “Pardon? You were studying Potions?”

She sipped her tea, nodding. “Indeed. There was a Magizoologist living there, one of the monks, whose speciality was antivenoms. We practised with Horn-Nosed Vipers, and several varieties of wolf spider. Deadly serious business.”

“What do you mean, you  _practised?”_ Snape’s eyebrows arched nearly into his hairline.

“We created antivenoms and treated each other’s bites! And--with yoga--subdued our breathing and heart rates to slow the progress of the venom.”

Snape’s eyes grew wide and then quickly narrowed. He shifted in his chair, drawing back. “Impressive . . . and . . . frightening.”  

She shrugged her shoulders quickly. “It was fun, actually. I loved working hard on something academic, for the first time in my life. You know, Bulgaria taught me a lot about myself. I was distanced from both my dysfunctional family, and my . . . well, rather . . . frivolous persona, I suppose is the word. Bulgaria was . . . a fresh start.” She paused. “Severus, I know very little about your life before Hogwarts School. Where did you grow up? Do you have brothers or sisters?”

“Oh, my origins are not very interesting,” he said. His eyes flickered back to black momentarily.

“I will find it interesting, because I find _you_ interesting.”

He smiled wanly. “Well. What can I say to that? I will tell you that I was born and raised in the industrial town of Cokeworth, in the mid-north of England. My mother was a pure-blooded witch, and quite gifted. . . . My father was a muggle. They fought constantly when I was a child. I was quite the miserable boy.”

“Oh. I am very sorry to hear it. Are they still living?”

He shook his head. “Both are gone.”

“You are a half-blood . . .” she remarked, pondering the fact that when she read the file, this had surprised her just a little, given the fact that he had been a Death Eater. Was still a Death Eater.

“I am. And I am sure that my childhood insecurities formed me into quite the elitist with a great admiration for pure bloodlines. . . . But I was uncomfortable with my family for plenty of other reasons. My parents were both abusive. To me, and to each other.”

She looked him over searchingly. “How difficult for you.”

He shrugged. “That life is behind me. But what about the House of Black? I am somewhat familiar with the story of Walburga and Orion. You called the family dysfunctional. What was it like, growing up in that house?”

“Grim.” Her pun on the name of the road where number 12 was situated was unintended but apt. She laughed lightly. “Very . . . grim. I did not get along with my mother at all. She was quite insane by the time I came of age. She was intensely jealous of me, and she hated Sirius. Regulus, too. Sirius was my salvation, as a child. Always looked out for me. My father and I were close when I was younger; I admired him, to a point, but his inability to take a stand against my mother when she was in full force always confused . . . and disappointed me.”

He nodded. “We have that last bit in common.” He grimaced only slightly, then commented, “Most everyone in your family is named after stars or constellations. Am I right?”

“Indeed. Orion, Regulus, Bellatrix, Andromeda, Sirius. . . .”

“But your name is unique.”

“Actually, Cissy’s is the really unique one.” She had reverted to her childhood designation for her cousin Narcissa. “She’s named for a flower! But it rather resembles a star. . . . My name means clarity, or light. The quality of stars.”

“Brilliance. So, your full name is an oxymoron.”

“Well, yes, I suppose it is.”

He pressed. “Surely you’ve thought before of the fact that your name is a contradiction: Clarissa Black. Shining dark.”

“Yes. I had considered it.” Her words brought Milton’s sonnet to mind. _When I consider how my light is spent/ Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide. . . ._ She always felt like that was her own story. In prison, the poem had sustained her. She had recited it over and over. It was as if Milton were warning her to choose her battles carefully; economize energy; recognize that light in darkness is not infinite.

He looked her over and spoke carefully. “The name . . . suits you.”

She smiled. “Thank you?--I’m not sure if it’s a compliment.”

“It is.”

She looked at him quizzically.

“You embody contrasts. Light skin, dark eyes. The distinct stripe in your hair. You possess both vulnerability and tremendous strength. I could go on. . . .”

She laughed. “I like that you could.” She reached a hand across the table and rested it on his. He turned his hand up to hold hers.

“. . . But, _Severus_. Well, I must also say your name suits _you.”_ She laughed. “But only on the outside. Only your edges seem harsh. I certainly don’t find you . . . well, you’re not exactly _severe.”_ Not right now, she thought, looking at his unshuttered face which seemed inquisitive, and kind. She squeezed his hand.

He smiled in return.“I think a great number of people would disagree with you. Students, for example.”

“Well, I’d like to think I am getting to know a different person than they know.” _Sever us._ It suits his _shell._  She eyed the long row of buttons running the length of his black wool tunic.

It was getting late. She noticed him glancing at the pocket monitor.

“All’s well with Dumbledore’s charge, I gather,” she said, smiling.

“Ah, yes,” he said. “Sorry. Old habits die hard.”

“I should leave you. Thank you so much for a really delightful evening.”

“Might you allow me to walk the grounds with you, first? And see you home?”

“But of course.”

 

They started out along the same road as she had run intervals earlier that day, the Hogsmeade connector. The same road where Sirius died. No escaping the memory of that night; I use this path all the time, she thought, feeling the punch to her gut. Of course, they would stay close to the castle, for safety, taking the wooded lake trail that would circle back to Hogwarts.

Seeing the lake view from the road again reminded her of Madeline Creech. “Severus, what can you tell me about Madeline? Why was Easterly so eager to find out what I knew about her?”

Snape paused, taking several strides in silence. “What do you know about Madeline Creech?”

“Almost nothing. Only that she worked at the Ministry in the Department of Magical Library Science. And I know she took her own life. Over there.” She pointed towards the lakefront. “What more can you tell me?”

He was silent for several seconds. “Well, not a great deal. She worked in a different office than I. She applied for a job at Hogwarts my first year, so we overlapped very little.”

“She died during your first year of teaching.”

“That’s right.”

They walked on in silence.

 

At her door, his face was in shadow; she couldn’t read the colour of his eyes.  He put an arm around her neck, wrapping her in his cape. Up close he smelled of wool and that fabulous dry spice. This time, he was the one to initiate a kiss. Enveloped, she had the powerful, seductive sense that nothing could touch her but this man and his warm, firm mouth. And his arms. And his hips. . . .

Looking down into Clarissa’s deep blue eyes sparkling in the lamplight, and her ghostly, glowing streak of white hair above them, Snape thought about her name. “Shining dark, indeed,” he said, and kissed her again. Her hands, under his cape, caressed his shoulders and back. And again he remembered his words to Dumbledore about her being “just a friend.”

Albus, I was dead wrong there. You knew.

 

 


	19. Translation

Severus Snape settled himself in the Reading Room of the Phineas Nigellus Black Collection of Dark Arts Texts. The boxed dossier lay open. Papers were scattered across the table where he sat. The file contained so many pages, so many sections, in so many languages. Tedious business. He could handle the French passages, of course; even most of the German. The Greek was . . . impossible, without using the translation spells he had mastered in school. The Arabic, ridiculous--but again, the spells were a godsend. Now and then he checked the Meanders Map to see the name Clarissa Black in the confines of her quarters. She had gone to Minerva’s--an invitation to an early dinner, she had told him. But for the past two hours, at least, she had been back in her room.

He turned past “Enchantment Spells,” “Spells for Special Occasions,” and “Death Curses: Battle” to an English section of the dossier titled “The Black Family Masters.” He read the words for perhaps the third time that evening:

_The family that combines the brightness of constellations and the blackness  of deep space will Master the Wand at the conclusion of a Great War, for the Family Black embody the combination of elements that pose the greatest threat to the Dark Lord. The family contains an equal balance of darkness and light, madness and sanity, Loyalty to the Dark Lord and Loyalty to the Order, love and hate. The family will find an ally in the Boy Who Did Not Die; he is allegiant to the proper Family Black._

Well, that seems clear enough, he thought. This must be about Harry. And it is implied that  the “proper” House of Black is on the side of good, in the end. But who, exactly, make up the “proper Family Black”?

Snape continued reading:

_A shadowy Keeper of Secrets, the single son the Dark Lord trusts above all wizards else, must join with the House of Black. The Order of the Phoenix will recognize the potency of the union. The House of Rising Black will be the key to the end of the Great War. So it is written._

He had read this part of the Prophecy years ago, but had scoffed at the idea of he himself being a key to events of historic import. Now Snape blinked several times, gazing around the room where Clarissa had kissed him, thinking of fresh applications of the single son most trusted by the Dark Lord joining with the house that combines darkness and light.

 

Harry looked out over the water shimmering with the fading sun. How immense the world seemed, from this vantage point. And how small he felt in it. He looked up the hill to where Dumbledore reclined in a wooden lounge chair, wrapped against the cold wind with his tiny cocktail glass. His eyes were closed and Harry could imagine the Headmaster was enjoying the feeling of the wind on his face and the sound of the crashing surf far below them.

Harry scampered back up the dunes. “Professor, we should probably get back inside. It will get cold out here really fast.”

Staying with Dumbledore had been eye-opening for Harry. He had not been able to imagine Dumbledore growing frail, ever. But here, the old man was easily tired and needed Harry’s help on a number of occasions.

Harry offered an arm so that Dumbledore could rise, and together they went inside the small, spare cottage. They lighted the lights and brought out the makings of sandwiches and bottles of ale that had been packed by Dobby back at Hogwarts.

Outside Harry had been thinking over a few things he wanted to ask Dumbledore. Quite a number of tangled threads had been knotting up in him since the last Order meeting and the revelations of the July Prophecy.

“Professor, I’ve been wondering again about the Prophecy . . .”

“Yes, Harry?” said Dumbledore, inquiring as much with kindly bright eyes as with his words.

“You told me that you couldn’t be sure if the boy was me or Neville. But why was _Voldemort_ sure it referred to me? Why attack my family?”

“He wasn’t sure. He . . . went with his instinct. His decision was surprising to some.”

“Okay,” said Harry. “It’s all rather immaterial now, isn’t it? Like water under the bridge. But I’ve been wanting to ask you about something else. For a while.  About Snape.”

Albus Dumbledore shrugged. “What do you want to know?”

“I wonder . . . why you trust him so completely.”

“He is my friend. I trust him with my life.”

“But, do you really know all about his motives? Why are you sure he’s no longer a loyal Death Eater?” Harry paused.

“Harry, people are complicated. Severus was intrigued with the Dark Arts early in his life. I know he deeply regrets some of that now. But he has also been instrumental in helping our side. His position is unique.”

Harry reflected, and sighed, before changing the subject. “You know, I actually think he and Clarissa Black might be . . . involved!”  He shook his head trying to comprehend the strange adults in his life.

 

In another section of the fat leather dossier, there was an envelope tucked under a flap. The envelope had words printed on the outside: “Special Notes regarding Elder Wand Composition.--A. Peverell.” He did not remember seeing this before. He carefully slid open the flap of the envelope to find a folded piece of paper inside. It was a brief register of core ingredients, as it were, such as he had seen many times accompanying wands. His own was still in the box his wand had come in, now buried in his closet. He scanned the list.

“Ah!” he said. “Dumbledore was right. . . . The Wand’s core is Thestral tail-hair.” At the very end of the paper a note had been added in the same hand. “A woman’s wand, in my opinion. The ability to master death is naturally stronger in witches than in wizards. Few will recognize the tendency in the Wand’s allegiance because our world fails to see this quality in women, who are the gatekeepers to life.”

 

“But Harry,” said Dumbledore soothingly, “you know that people are rich, contradictory creatures. Severus Snape may appear to you to be a grumpy taskmaster always intent on seeing the worst in you. In fact, he doesn’t treat you very differently than a parent might. A parent with exceedingly high expectations. A parent who wants the very best from you at all times.”

Harry looked at Dumbledore with surprise, and anger. In fact, Harry looked like he wanted to throw up and throw something at the same time.

“A parent! A parent! On what planet do parents sneer at their children and berate them, belittle them--”

Dumbledore patted Harry on the arm. “Well, on the planet where Snape was raised by two highly dysfunctional, terrifying people--Planet Cokeworth, shall we say--I believe Snape would be considered a rather mellow parent.”

Harry shook his head and looked like he wanted to spit the words he was attempting to form. “Are you saying--are you saying that Snape acts as he does towards me--because--because--he--” Harry could almost not force the word out. “--Because he loves me?”

Dumbledore smiled and stroked his beard. “Intriguing idea, isn’t it? Do think about it. He was always highly jealous of Sirius, who bullied him in school. Then Sirius reappears and you have a Godfather. You adore him! And you form a natural bond with his sister, Clarissa. Snape has always . . . watched out for you, Harry. He has seen you as important to the Order, as we all have. You know that he has saved your life on a number of occasions. He just . . . has a rather strange way of showing his affection. With competition like Sirius--and now, Clarissa--what chance would Snape have of being appreciated for what he has done for you?”

Harry wrinkled up his entire face. “Well. That is an idea that will take me some time to digest. And actually . . .” Harry paused, considered. “Hermione insists that Snape is behaving differently now, though I haven’t noticed it as much as she claims to. She calls the change ‘the Clarissa Black Effect.’” Harry laughed.

Dumbledore’s face lit up. His eyes were shining.

Harry enjoyed seeing Dumbledore happy; then the young man turned thoughtful again, and spoke in a relaxed, rambling fashion. “Why . . . other than the Order . . . why would Snape have any affection for me at all? He absolutely _hated_ my father. Thought my dad to be on the same level as raw, stinking sewage. On the other hand, he knew my mother from childhood. I’ve heard from Aunt Petunia that Mom sometimes spoke of Snape quite fondly. Do you suppose . . . he hated my father, but had a soft spot for my mother? They were from the same town, after all.”

Dumbledore shrugged a little exaggeratedly. “Of course, that is possible. What you can be sure of is Snape’s desire to protect the interests of the Order. You are at the heart of that.”

 

Snape opened a large pocket of thick parchment. Inside was a delicately embroidered square of thin white fabric, with criss-crossed threads of red, green, gold and black around its edges. Inside the fabric was more parchment. It read, in English:

_The most Brilliant Witch of her generation will be revealed within the House of  Black at the time of a Great Battle among Wizards. The Final Mistress of the Elder Wand will confound the Dark Lord with her powers._

He pondered the possibilities: Clarissa? Bellatrix? Narcissa? Nymphadora? What other cousins might be tucked away that he didn’t know about? Maybe he should study that tapestry at 12 Grimmauld next time he was there. He read further, coming to a strange line at the end of the prose text:

_The Final Mistress of the Elder Wand, if she chooses to rule along with the Dark Lord, would render both immortal by their union, along with their progeny, for seven generations._

He thought of Bellatrix. She certainly welcomed a union with Voldemort. . . . Starting just below these words, and continuing onto the next page, was a five-stanza poem. He recognized the alphabet as Cyrillic; the words were unintelligible. That meant the poem could be Russian, Bulgarian, Macedonian, Serbian . . .  or maybe even Romani. . . . And quite a few other possibilities, he realized. So this may take some time, he thought, checking the map to be sure Clarissa was still safely in her rooms.

He waved his wand and uttered the translation spell: _Russki Ezik podhozhdai Angliiski!_ There appeared a few readable English changes to the text when he asked for Russian, but it was far from complete. Next, he tried Bulgarian. _Bulgarski Ezik podhozhdai Angliiski!_ He waved the wand. Quickly, he recognized the poem was almost completely translated. He laughed aloud as he read the English words.

“But--but--this is William Blake! ‘Jerusalem.’ Why in Bulgarian?”

He knew Blake’s poem well; he had studied the preface to _Milton: a Poem_ in Blake’s _Prophetic Books_. Blake, of course, was thought to have been a Slytherin. At least, that’s what those of Snape’s house had always claimed. From childhood, Blake had been Snape’s favourite lyric poet. Snape now read:

And did those feet in ancient time

Walk upon England’s mountains green:

And was the holy Lamb of God,

On England’s pleasant pastures seen!

And did the Countenance Divine,

Shine forth upon our clouded hills?

And was Jerusalem builded here,

Among these dark Satanic Mills?

Snape smiled to himself remembering how, as a child, he thought that Blake was writing directly to him about his life in Cokeworth, a place of “dark Satanic Mills” for certain. Severus had loved wandering out from the grimy town where he lived, to roam among the beauteous hills and fields beyond. At times Lily could be enticed to join him. He would frequently be gone for a whole wonderful day at a time--and realize, upon return home, that no one in the house had missed him.

When he got to the end of the four familiar stanzas, there was a fifth verse that was unknown to him. This was certainly not part of Blake’s original. Two words had not translated with his spell and remained written in Cyrillic. Probably a dialect, he thought. The spell would only work as well as the most reliable dictionary that it could access, after all. What he could read was: 

The Fairest Язовичкосна Вещицица:

The One who rules the Ancient Wand,

May torment us, or salve our fear.

Clear thinker, serve Old Isle Land! 

“Well, I happen to know a Bulgarian language and history expert. Maybe she can translate this phrase.” He checked the time on his pocket watch, and saw it was 10:30. He also saw that Clarissa was still in her parlour, though she had moved from the divan to the floor beside it.

“No doubt doing yoga exercises,” he thought.

He carefully copied the mystery phrase onto a slip of paper. Then he packed up the dossier into the leather binder, and placed it back in the box.

 _“Aminadab Kalindaijo,”_ he intoned over the dossier. The words on the pages would now be disguised to all readers but him. The cover now showed, in murky, scratched, Seventeenth Century-styled script: “The Early Works of Christopher Middleton.” He placed the tall box back on the shelf next to the empty space where Clarissa’s Milton text would likely return at some point. He wondered if he should move the box elsewhere, but decided against it. The spells will do their job, if she, or anyone, looks into it, he assured himself. Often things are best hidden in plain sight.

 

Upstairs in Ravenclaw Tower, the knock at Clarissa’s rooms was answered quickly.

“Hello, Severus. What brings you ’round my place?” She seemed to be trying one of her most fetching Lauren Bacall impersonations.

He did not want to be distracted by her lovely low voice, sparkling eyes . . . nor the curvy figure draped in the doorway.

“Clarissa. I trust I am not disturbing you--”

“Severus. For Giles’s sake, come in! You needn’t be so bloody formal!”

He swept inside with a low bow.

She looked up at him, impatient. “Yes?”

“I . . . need help with a translation. _Bulgarski.”_

Clarissa looked surprised, and faintly disappointed. “Oh. Right.”

 

“Harry, dear boy, I have something I must tell you.”

“Yes, Headmaster?” Harry’s face was bright, expectant, and so pure that the information Dumbledore must impart felt like a perverse violation.

“Harry, I am dying.”

The boy stared at Albus without a sign of comprehension. “Sir?”

“I received a deathblow during the fight in which Sirius lost his life. I was injured. I have . . . only weeks to live.”

“But, that’s impossible. You can’t die!”

Harry spoke with such certainty, Dumbledore was tempted to believe it himself.

“No, Harry. I will die. We all die. It doesn’t seem possible. But it is true. We don’t go on indefinitely. No one does.”

Harry’s face was frantic. “I--I--I won’t allow it! Can’t someone heal you? Madame Pomfrey? Snape?” Harry’s eyes darted about as if looking for a physical solution to Dumbledore’s problem in the cottage where they sat.

“Harry. It will be alright. Please realize, I am ready to go. You are special to me and I wanted you to know this latest development, before I announce it to the rest of the Order. Soon. At the the next meeting.”

 

Sitting down under a bright lamp, Clarissa read the phrase printed on the scrap of paper.

“What in the world?” she said, laughing lightly. “Язовичкосна вещицица. That means ‘badger-haired woman.’ I haven’t seen that phrase in ages. That’s a really old regional dialect of Bulgarian. Also Macedonian.” She chuckled. “When I was living at Troyan, I had an assistant with hair like that. Iva Zaharieva. She taught me the expression. You know the story, how mine came back the same way, after prison! What a funny coincidence. Why do you need _that_ phrase?”

Snape looked puzzled and vaguely alarmed. “‘Badger-Haired Woman?’ But what does it _mean?”_

“Well, actually, that word for woman is like ‘crone.’ Or ‘witch.’ So, your phrase means ‘Badger-Haired Witch.’” She pointed to the white streak of hair rising from her forehead.

He felt distinctly unsteady.

“Badger-haired is an idiomatic expression for a woman with a white shock of hair in her crown. Like mine.”

Snape’s mind was reeling. He thanked her, mumbled something vague about needing to finish the work he was doing. Quickly, casually enough, he hoped, he gave her a quick kiss goodnight, and made his way to his quarters. His mind flew. He walked slowly and breathed deeply in an attempt to gather himself. The fifth verse of the poem, now complete, rushed to mind:

The Fairest Witch, with Badger Hair:

The One who rules the Ancient Wand,

May torment us, or salve our fear.

Clear thinker, serve Old Isle Land!

 

Snape’s roving thoughts prevented him from sleep for much of the night. The little amount he got was troubled by freakish scenes of Clarissa, brandishing the Elder Wand, cackling like her cousin Bellatrix, surrounded by a herd of badgers, chasing him. In one dream, Clarissa actually became Bellatrix, their features sliding together, back and forth. Black hair to brown, white stripe. . . . He sat up in bed, suddenly.

But the poem might not be about Clarissa, he thought. Bellatrix has streaks in her hair as well, doesn’t she? But the trouble he had conjuring Bella’s hair up in his mind made him realize that her hair was not marked in the way Clarissa’s was. Bella’s streaks were off to the sides; Clarissa’s was a lightning bolt shock of hair right in the middle. For that matter . . . Narcissa also had two-toned hair. But not a _streak_. Besides, Narcissa must dye her hair that way for the dramatic effect, since the colours varied. But the “fairest” witch. Did that mean blond? Or beautiful? Or simply good?

“Women of the House of Black . . .” Voldemort’s words came back to him. He shuddered. He had referred to them as _femmes fatales._ The Dark Lord must know at least a portion of the Prophecy. But did he know a woman with Badger Hair was destined to rule the Wand?


	20. The Circular Study

Albus Dumbledore sat in his comfortable spot in the beautiful round room. Above him, Fawkes chirped very little as he swished his bright tail over the Headmaster. Albus’s injured hand was now completely blackened. The full extent of the injury which travelled well up his arm was hidden from view by his splendid light-blue silky robes.

Across the room from him, Severus stood with his back turned.

“I will do as you wish, Albus.” His voice, just above a whisper, was resigned.

From his chair Dumbledore could see, but not hear, that Severus was weeping.

 

 


	21. All Hallow's Eve

Lupin stood up in front of the Order, and raised his glass. “To Lily and James!  You are gone, but never forgotten.” He smiled at Harry and tipped his glass.

A chorus of “hear, hear” rang out around the table.

It was Halloween night, Sunday. Monday, All Saints’ Day, there would be no school.

Harry was feeling blue; he could not believe it had been 15 years since his parents died. But he smiled at Lupin and said, “Thank you,” in appreciation for the remembrance.

Clarissa saw that Snape remained quite still during Lupin’s toast, but he drank, then looked away.

Dumbledore spoke. “It is a sad anniversary, indeed. But we should also celebrate the life of Harry Potter!” He slapped Harry gently on the back and said, “Harry, we are so lucky to have you.” He ruffled Harry’s hair.

Dumbledore cleared his throat. “I will miss all of you.” He looked around at each person at the table with genuine fondness.

Clarissa said, “What do you mean, Albus? Where are you going?”

Albus cleared his throat. “My dear.” He put his hand on her arm and looked around again at the assembly. “Friends, I am dying. I received a fatal blow from Fenrir Greyback during the Death Eater attack that killed Sirius. I am likely to die of the wound within a month.” Small gasps erupted up and down the table. “Voldemort is unaware of my injury. He has assigned Draco Malfoy the task of killing me, as a test, on November fifth. But in order to spare Draco the black mark on his soul, Severus--” Now Dumbledore turned to his friend, and his voice caught a little. “Severus has agreed to perform the killing curse, as a final favour to me.” He bowed his head.

Clarissa felt as if she had been kicked hard in the gut. The edges of the room, and the fringes of her mind, blackened; it was as if the world were tilting and she would slide off into space as the room erupted into confusion and alarm.  A number of voices reverberated at once in a harsh crescendo.

Clarissa mumbled to no one in particular, “Please--please excuse me a moment--” and stumbled out into the darkening evening.

She walked rapidly, trying with difficulty to breathe. Finally her lungs managed to fill and her pounding heart calmed a little. Reaching the end of the road where a broad view of London opened up, she leaned against the hip-high stone wall and gazed out over the city. The backdrop was a beautiful purple sky giving way to blue black, and emerging starlight.

This was impossible. Dumbledore, dying. Snape--asked to kill his dearest friend. She felt numbed, and sick. She looked out, and then leaned over the stone wall. The pressure of the cool stone against her belly helped her body give way to sobs.

She slowly made her way back towards the meeting. Severus was waiting for her under the lamp post outside Number 12.

She ran to him, headlong. He folded her in his arms and into the cape. She buried her wet face in his chest as he held her.

Finally she looked up. “How long have you known . . . what he asks?”

“Only a few hours,” he whispered.  

“Oh, god, Severus!”

They held each other for several minutes. He stroked her hair. Then he pulled her towards the door, saying, “Come back. We have to get through this meeting.” He turned her to face him and looked her over, searchingly. “You will come away with me tonight?”

“I--I will.” The invitation to spend the night at his home in Cokeworth had been a surprise--a most wonderful one. “I have my bag.”

He squeezed her hand, and led her back into the house. Kreacher could be heard from his tiny room below the stairs, muttering about the Order and its rude comings and goings, always disturbing his quiet.

Inside, the kitchen was subdued. All eyes followed Clarissa and Snape.  She returned Harry’s concerned gaze with a small smile. How mature he looks, so like his father!--Not a boy anymore. His face seems tired, drawn--but resolute. But also, for the first time, Clarissa could see his mother’s tender features around the mouth. And of course, the eyes were all Lily.

“Ah, Severus. Clarissa.” She settled back into her seat, at Albus’s right. Snape sat to her right. Dumbledore turned to her and took her hand. “I know that my announcement was difficult to hear. You have been through too much already.”

Clarissa said in a rush, “Oh, Albus. Please don’t be concerned for me! I’m--just so shocked at what you are facing, and--and of course, Severus. . . .” Her voice dropped to a whisper as she blinked her wide eyes.

Dumbledore nodded.  He held a hand on hers as he continued, “Now we must lay the groundwork for the events that will follow November fifth. Upon my passing, Minerva has agreed to serve as Interim Headmaster of the school. Clarissa, you must leave Hogwarts the night I die. The castle will not be safe for you. After I am gone, and no longer the Wand Master, that title will be . . . Severus’s, probably.”

Clarissa gazed at him in surprise. “Leave? But why? What about my classes?”

“Mad-Eye will cover your classes.” Dumbledore looked to Moody who nodded genially, sticking his lower lip out. “Moody, your presence will also provide Hogwarts more on-site protection.”

Now Albus held Clarissa’s arm in his healthy right hand and spoke firmly, looking across the table to Tonks. “I would like for Tonks to go with you. She is also in danger, you see. I believe a viable hiding place for you both is . . . Well, I would rather not say it, in case we are being heard by outsiders. Or in case Voldemort succeeds in reading any of you.” Dumbledore now turned to look directly at Clarissa. She saw that his eyes of brilliant blue were welling up, and found herself blinking in vain to prevent her own tears from running down her face. Snape stared down at the table.

Dumbledore sighed deeply and slowly. “The House of Black is marked for death by Voldemort. He started with Sirius. Clarissa, you will likely be next in line to be killed, once I am gone.”

Many around the table gasped. Lupin grabbed Tonks’s arm.

Clarissa said, slowly, “I have been made aware that I am a target. But why the whole House of Black? Why Tonks?” She turned to stare at Severus.

Dumbledore waited, also looking at Snape. “Severus?”

Snape remained silent, and shook his head. He looked down.

Dumbledore took her arm again, and reached across the table, with difficulty,  to hold on to Tonks with his left hand. “The House of Black figures quite prominently in the lore surrounding the Elder Wand. There is a section of the file devoted to your family line. You must trust that Severus and I have had very sound reasons for keeping this from you until now.”

The cousins stared at each other. Lupin was fuming. Snape looked down. Harry was thoughtful, taking all this in.

Albus continued, “The House of Black is predicted to master the Wand. In the end.”

“In the end?” said Harry. “What does that mean?”

Dumbledore smiled at his young charge. “It means . . . at the end of the Wand’s life. The House of Black is predicted to have final possession of the Wand.”

Clarissa’s mind was flailing about like a grounded fish. Why had Albus not told her about her family’s role in the Wandlore? And bloody hell, why hadn’t Snape?

She protested, “But what does it _say?_ And why should we be--why are you--so ready to buy into it? And surely you are thinking about other members of the House of Black, besides Tonks and me.” Then she paused. “And how are you so certain of the Prophecy?” She looked from Dumbledore to Snape. Only Dumbledore would look at her.

Suddenly, she knew. Without a doubt. _“You_ have the file!” she said. It had to be.

Dumbledore nodded quite thoughtfully and stroked his beard. “You are correct, Clarissa. Hogwarts possesses the Elder Wand Dossier. You know that I may not possess it personally.”

A murmur pulsed along the table. Clarissa, as sure as she was a moment ago of her assertion, had to let this information sink in. Heat flared in her cheeks as she thought of the price she had paid for that file’s disappearance. It was the ammunition Lucius had needed.

Harry asked, “Why does the school have the file? Where is it?”

“How Hogwarts came to have the file is irrelevant. And its location is . . . most sensitive information.” Dumbledore patted Harry briefly and paused as if considering something, then continued, “Clarissa, you are no doubt confused and angry to learn I have known of the file’s whereabouts. I do not blame you. But please believe me when I tell you, I had no idea that Lucius implicated you in the loss of the file six years ago.”

She nodded at him, cheeks still flaming.

“And you raised good questions a moment ago. Most pressing is not whether the Prophecy is true. What matters is what Voldemort believes, and it appears that he knows at least some of the Prophecy, and is acting on it. And he likely found it out from Lucius. This has put Lucius in a very, very awkward position, you see.”

Tonks said, “Of course . . . His wife, his own child are implicated.”

Dumbledore nodded.

Clarissa’s mind was racing. The notebook. Of course. Lucius took all those notes. That information must have ended up in Voldemort’s hands. “Voldemort must have gotten the notebook. It makes sense. But do we know what Lucius gave him? Did he render the original accurately, especially given that his own family are part of the Prophecy?”

Snape and Dumbledore looked at each other, startled. “That,” Snape said, “is an interesting question.”

Dumbledore had grown weary. His eyes looked more etched with tired lines, and his good hand shook as he extended an open palm. “We must take precautions to protect everyone involved on the fifth. I will speak further to you, Severus, and to you, Clarissa, about the logistics of the night of my death.”

Harry looked a little hurt. “Do I not have a role to play that night?”

“No, Harry, it is essential that you stay away from these events Friday.” Dumbledore was firm. “Your time will come. For now let’s at least be clear about this: you two--” looking at Clarissa and Tonks--“will need to get the hell out of Dodge, as it were.”

Tonks and Clarissa looked grave in spite of the old man’s absurd metaphor. Clarissa said, “I see the sense in it, Albus. Whether we _believe_ the Prophecy or not is unimportant. What matters is what Voldemort believes.”

Snape looked thoughtful. Dumbledore nodded.

Harry offered, “Okay. So we have established that Tonks and Clarissa both need to go into hiding on the fifth. And then what? What are we going to do after that about killing Voldemort? What are we going to do to be finally rid of him?”

Clarissa thought, Sirius would be proud of you, Harry. Stick to your guns. And keep thinking of the big picture.

Dumbledore turned back to Harry. “What do you think should be done? To defeat Voldemort?”

Harry answered with no hesitation. “We should use the file, and the Wand. Lure him out. Tell him . . . I have the file. Tell him that I will bring it to him. He wants me dead, and he wants the file. Give him a shot at the Wand . . . assuming one of us has it after the fifth.” He looked at Snape.

“It’s promising," said Dumbledore. Snape nodded.

Several people around the table began talking at once, some expressing objections, some commending the proposal.

Dumbledore raised a shaky hand. “I will let the younger generations work this out, by and by. But for the record, I advocate for Harry’s idea. Now, I believe, this meeting is adjourned.”

 

As people rose to ready themselves for departure, Dumbledore strode over to Snape and spoke in low tones. “I will take your Meanders Map tonight, and mind the boy. I will accompany Harry back to the castle, with Mad-Eye, Lupin, and Tonks.”

“I am grateful to you, Albus.” If she even wants to come with me, after what she’s learned tonight.

Dumbledore said, “You need not report back till late tomorrow, with the holiday. Just please, go, and have a good time.” He held out his hand.

Snape took out the roll of parchment from his inner pocket and handed it to his friend.

 

Outside 12 Grimmauld Place, as soon as the others had left through the portkey, she wheeled on Snape. Her voice was ragged. He could see patches of bright flush shading her throat and cheeks.

“How could you not tell me? My family--named in the Prophecy! Sirius, Tonks and I were at risk, the whole time, and you knew! You _knew_ it! What else are you not telling me?” Her eyes brimmed with fury as well pain, like a cornered animal.

He held her shoulders, and shook his head. “Clarissa, please, don’t speak openly out here--”

She backed away from him, enunciating slowly. “I want to go back to the castle now. I can’t possibly go to Spinner’s End with you tonight.”

He moved towards her. “Please. Wait. Don’t go back. . . .”

She spun away from him.

He grabbed her arm and turned her to him. “Clarissa. Please. Listen to me. Let me try tonight. Come with me. There will be no more secrets. I promise you that.” He held her, looking into her face with unshuttered eyes.

She glared up at him. But he could see by her shoulders, which were deflating slowly, that she was softening. Her eyes were more sad than smouldering.

She shook her head. “I can’t. I can’t do this. How can I trust you? I--I--”

He leaned in close to her taking both her shoulders firmly in his hands. “Please. Come with me tonight. I will show you . . . everything. . . .” Warm brown eyes were shining, pleading.

Damn him, she thought. Those eyes . . . She looked away, up at the starry night sky, and breathed out slowly. She thought of her quiet, elegant Ravenclaw room . . . Not a bad place to be right now. There was plenty of whisky and no one to answer to.

She turned to him. “Alright. I will go with you.”

 

 


	22. Cokeworth

They arrived inside the kitchen at Spinner’s End to find savory meat pies still warm inside a covered tray. A bottle of red wine and glasses were set out, along with cheese and fruit.

“Dobby’s work,” said Snape. He took her cape and his and hung them up on the wall. Returning to where she stood, he drew her close, stroked her hair and gave her a kiss. “He really was averse to fulfilling my wishes for dinner here tonight, but when I told him Miss Black was coming home with me, his attitude changed, miraculously. . . .” He looked around. “And he cleaned the place up rather nicely for us, I see. For _you,_ I mean.”

She looked around, curious. “So this is the family homestead.” The place was darkly furnished with shabby furniture. But it was tidy.

He sighed. “Yes. Such as it is.”

He led her into the parlour area which was dominated by stuffed bookshelves. The walls were hung with oddly creepy Victorian-style still-life paintings of flowers and food, all with infinite, dark backgrounds. In the hall she passed an awkwardly formal photograph of a pale, thin, round-shouldered boy of about five years old with long, lank black hair. He wore a shorts suit of black wool with white cuffs exposing bony legs. He was holding a ramshackle-looking black and white wooden toy horse. Dark, unblinking eyes seemed to pull her into the painting.

“It’s you!” she exclaimed.

“Yes.” He looked slightly embarrassed.

“Oh, Severus, you’re . . .  quite adorable. Just . . . really sad looking.” She stared, shaking her head, then asked if she could see the rest of the place.

He shrugged. “Of course, if you would like.”

Little was noteworthy about the cramped, working-class, two-story dwelling other than how unlike the floorplan was from her own sprawling family home in London. Yet there was a similar dank, long-neglected quality to both dwellings.

In his old bedroom she immediately recognized the long row of royal-blue book spines filling an entire shelf. “ _The Handley Boys’ Magical Adventures!_ Wonderful! You read them?”

He nodded, smiling. “They were a silly but apt escape.”

“Of course. I read _The Keene Witch Girls_ myself. And poetry. . . . Lots of poetry.”

“Me, too.” He picked up the well-worn _Songs of Innocence and Experience_ he had perused daily in childhood, examining the bright illustrations for clues to the meanings of the written words and to the meaning of his own life.

“Ah! William Blake,” she said, taking it from him and sifting through it.

“Your favourite is Milton,” he said.

She said, “Yes. Always. You know, Blake wrote about him.”

“I know,” he said. He took the Blake volume from her and carried it with him as they descended the stairs.

 

Dobby had left wood and kindling stacked in the fireplace. A flick of the wand was all Snape needed to give the room warmth and crackling light. He removed his shoes and then helped Clarissa off with her boots. She settled onto the couch, facing the fire; he handed her a glass of wine and went back to the kitchen to retrieve trays of food which he placed on the coffee table. He sat next to her. She curled her legs up, tucking her feet under his legs. While they ate they talked little.

Snape was the first to approach the topic looming over them as they finished the simple meal. “All during the meeting tonight I was plagued by knowing that I put you in such an unfair position. By keeping information from you. I am . . . so sorry.”

She looked at him somewhat vacantly as if to say, Please, just don’t make me think any more.

“Thank you for coming here tonight,” he said.

“You are . . . very persuasive,” she managed. She wiped her mouth with a napkin and took a sip of wine.

“Clarissa, I’m tired. So tired. . . .” he said quietly, leaning all the way back.

She looked at him now with some tenderness, and leaned forward. “I’m sad. For Dumbledore, for poor Draco, for all of us--but especially for you. Your role is terrible. . . . I cannot imagine it.” She reflected further, wrinkling up her face. “Though I suppose it’s not the worst way to die. . . . To be able to have warning. To be able to make final arrangements, and say goodbye to people. . . . I surely would have liked to tell Sirius one more time that I loved him, and to thank him, finally, for everything he did for me.”

He took her hands. She rested her head on his knees. He ran a hand through the lovely, honey-coloured curls that were now long enough to spill over his legs. The hair felt warm to the touch, and so soft.

She breathed heavily with contentment.

“Clarissa. Tonight, since I have promised there will be no more secrets, I would be open to . . . letting you in. As a Legilimens. I will drop all defences. They are very tiring to maintain, anyway. It would feel wonderful to no longer guard against you.”

She raised her head and looked at him. “I haven’t even tried to read you lately, not with Legilimency. I tried to read you a few times early on . . . but you were impenetrable! Of course, I have been defending, as well. Just a habit, I guess.”

He looked at her with such openness of expression, she was certain she could send out a thread right then and be inside his mind. But she would wait until he was ready to invite her in.

Now she turned to face him on the couch, leaning back against the armrest and tucking her feet under him again. “You are no doubt aware,” she said simply, “that Sirius wanted me at Hogwarts to learn what you were up to. To make sure that someone kept a close watch on Harry. Sirius didn’t trust you. And I’m afraid that in the end, the fact that he wouldn’t listen to your warning cost him his life.”

Snape nodded grimly. “I know. Sirius was not likely to heed that warning from anyone, though. Your brother had to do things his own way.”

She laughed. “Indeed. He was . . . stubborn.”

Snape held her hand and rubbed it gently, then slowly put it to his lips. He held the hand there for a long while, and then drew her body up closer to him, pulling her arm across his chest, caressing it as he spoke. “I was suspicious of you. In the beginning, I was sure Dumbledore was making a terrible mistake in bringing the sister of Sirius Black onto the campus! Because of the Prophecy. And of course, I have been wary all along that you were friendly to me in order to get close to that file.”

“Ah,” she said, squeezing her eyes shut. “That makes . . . sense.” But little was truly making sense to her right now.

“But tonight, I realized beyond any doubt that my suspicions were pointless. I knew I could trust you.”

“Tonight. When?” she asked, stroking the side of his face. She brought her free arm around behind his back, and rested her head on his shoulder. He breathed deeply; her curls always smelled subtly of her glorious perfume.

“When you ran out of the meeting. I knew for certain how much you love Dumbledore. I cannot help but totally trust someone who . . . loves him as you do, and who comprehends the horrific nature of what I must do for him.”

The two were silent for a time. Severus turned her face up to his for a long kiss.

He smoothed her hair back from her forehead. “I am ready.” Sitting up straight, he said, “It will help me if I lie down.”

She nodded. He extended himself over the length of the large couch placing the back of his head on her lap.

She stroked his hair and face as he settled himself.

He closed his eyes, and his face was perfectly relaxed.

She breathed deeply, shut her eyes, and cleared her mind, while touching her hands to his temples.

He sent the thread. _Clarissa. Please, would you do me the honor of reading my thoughts?_

She felt his thread pressing in on her mind. She spun one back. _With pleasure, Severus._ She was in.

 

She encountered the rush of his emotions like the flowing of a broad, fast river. She saw pretty, sunlit scenes of his childhood. There were also painful and terrible scenes no one would wish on one they loved. There were sweet scenes with Lily. She saw that he loved Lily deeply, but that he had hurt her with an immature and bigoted barb. She saw her brother and his fellow Marauders tormenting Snape; more and more he craved dark power. She saw Voldemort branding Snape with his Dark Mark. Then the scarring, terrible scarring of his soul, after Lily died. Guilt, pain, desperate loneliness. She saw dedication to Harry and constant vigilance in the role of Harry’s surrogate parent, even while he detested what Harry was: the product of Lily with a man who had bullied him relentlessly. She saw the brilliantly framed portrait of Lily at his bedside: the last thing he viewed every night and the first thing every morning.

Suddenly, it was like she switched channels and entered a parallel river flowing next to the first one. She understood immediately--how?--that this mind course was the one he constructed almost constantly for Lord Voldemort to view. There were the nightly prayers of adoration. Sickening, disturbing, depleting. There was the entire alternate landscape of Snape’s thoughts about Dumbledore’s incompetence, Harry’s arrogance, Hermione’s insecurity, her own insipidness. . . . Voldemort could probe Snape’s mind any waking moment, so this mental track had to be maintained with near-constant attention. She felt the way energy drained from Severus as he fed Voldemort’s sucking greed.

Next, she was back on Severus’s authentic mind track, the side Voldemort never saw. She was in the Ministry. Wan, pale, lovesick Madeline Creech pursued Severus. He was impatient, gruff, distant. Madeline followed him to Hogwarts. She climbed downstairs to his dungeons, wearing a rumpled navy blue suit, clutching a large leather-bound dossier. “It’s for you. I took it for you. You deserve all the power and privilege that the file confers! I believe in you, Severus.” But he insulted her, scolded her, turned coldly back to an equation on the chalkboard. The file remained on his desk. The ghostlike Madeline walked away from him, up the stairs and out of the castle. Down the hillside from the road, toward the lake. She kept walking, into the water, until she was gone.

 

Abruptly, Clarissa stopped reading him.

“It was . . . you,” she said.

“Clarissa. Why did you stop?”

“You,” she said. “She gave you the file. She walked into the lake . . . for you. And _you_ had the thing. All this time.” Clarissa stared down at Snape’s face in her lap as if it were something contaminated. She had raised her hands away from his temples when she broke the connection, and her hands were still in the air, erect, like dead tree branches.

She wrested herself free of the weight of his head, and stood up. She did not face him. She walked towards her coat.

“Clarissa, what are you doing?” he said in alarm.

She kept walking.

He strode across the room towards her. “Please, Clarissa--you have to see more, to make sense of it!” He took her arms and wheeled her towards him. She looked at him faintly terrified, like she had never seen him before. “Clarissa, I’m so sorry. . . . What can I say to help you understand?”

“Severus. I can’t stay with you tonight. I--I just can’t.”

“Please, you must see more!”

She shook her head, moving again towards the door.

“Tell me what I could do! I’ve kept the file for the Order! How could I tell you before now?” His eyes were wild. “I was forbidden! Dumbledore even said it was not possible for you to know until--”

She wheeled to look at him. “Until what? Until I fell in love with you? A man I hardly know! My god! _You_ were given the file. The _file._ Its disappearance was Lucius’s weapon against me. Five years in Azkaban, Severus! My brother, dead! And you . . . She gave it . . . _to you._ Not to Dumbledore. Not to Hogwarts!”

Now, exhausted, she rubbed her face with with her hands to keep from spilling emotions everywhere. She spoke very quietly. “And she died that day. She walked into that lake. She was broken. By you.”

Now Snape’s eyes were resigned as he said in slow, deep tones, “Clarissa, my god, don’t you think I have paid . . . for years?”

“Severus. I need to go.” She took her cape and spun it around her neck.

“I will take you back,” he said simply.

 

 


	23. The Vow

After the portkey, Snape saw Clarissa to her quarters. She did not turn to him when she reached her door. In a flash of white-streaked brown hair and swirling cape, she disappeared.

Snape made his way slowly, heavily downstairs towards the dungeon. He consulted the pocket monitor for the first time in over four hours. Two-thirty a.m. Harry was in his quarters.

In the main corridor the tall, angular figure of Argus Filch ambled towards him. Mrs. Norris, the caretaker’s large tortoise-shell cat, scurried alongside her master.

Filch grinned as he approached Snape. “That Harry!” he said, shaking his head. Lank, greasy brown and grey hair swung side to side.

Snape stopped walking.

Filch cackled. “He and Neville, and the Weasley boy, tonight . . . Y’know, it ruther surprises me them boys don’ do more o’ that.”

“More . . .  of . . . what, Argus?” Snape’s stare was ice-cold. He looked down his long nose at him.

“Oh, y’know, boys bein’ boys. Gettin’ themselves good and pissed. . . . They was out of pocket. I checked me map right ’round elevenses and they was in their quarters. Then in the night, nobody there. Now, tho’, they’s back! Safe and sound.”

“What do you mean? The boys were out? In the night?” Snape’s voice pitched higher and higher.

“Yeah,” said Filch, laughing. “Hog’s Head. They knew Rosmerta would never let ‘em get away with bein’ in her place, late. I saw they was back around two o’clock, and went up to see ‘em. They ‘fessed up as to where they’d been, tho’ I’ll warrant, they won’t remember tellin’ me!” The man hooted uproariously.

Snape fairly flew along the corridor and up the stairs to the Headmaster’s suite.

Dumbledore answered the rapid knocking after several minutes, wearing a white nightgown and pointed cap, looking dazed.

“Severus! Why are you here, man? Is something wrong?”

Snape grabbed Dumbledore’s arm. His eyes were wild. “Albus! Albus. The boys! Harry! What--”

“Severus, calm yourself, man.” He led Snape into the foyer by the arm, and placed him in the nearest chair. “Everything,” he breathed out deeply, “is fine.” He patted Snape’s hand.

“Great Giles, Albus, what--what happened? Filch told me--the Hog’s Head?” Snape’s eyes were enormous and black. He looked slightly deranged.

“Severus. Stop. Look at me,” Albus’s voice was soothing. “Nothing happened. The boys are fine. Please, relax.”

Snape’s voice returned to the thin, controlled icy tone he used with students. “Tell me, Albus. Tell me what _happened.”_

Now Albus sat down in a nearby chair and pulled it towards Snape, who had leaned far back in his own seat, sitting up very straight and tall.

Albus sat back. “The boys went out, late. After I went to sleep. I had regularly checked their location, of course, though maybe not as often as every fifteen minutes, as I know you like to. I saw Harry was in his room at around ten.”

Snape was staring at him. He was taking in long, even breaths through his nose, nostrils flaring rhythmically.

Albus continued. “I went to sleep, and . . . they must have gone out sometime after that. Filch came to see me around midnight. Said his Marauder’s Map showed they were off grounds.”

Snape’s hands clutched the arms of his chair so tightly the knuckles had gone completely white. He was shaking slightly.

“But . . .  the Caterwauling Charm should have alerted you . . .” he whispered.

Albus looked sheepish. “Not with my hearing. I left it shut up in the bath. Though that likely does explain why Fawkes was so jumpy in the night,” he said thoughtfully. He tried to soothe his clearly miserable friend. “Severus. It’s over and done. The boys were out. It was a danger. But nothing happened to them. They stumbled home, and I dare say, will not be feeling altogether well when they wake up. But this is not entirely unexpected. They are young. Harry is under a lot of pressure. It’s actually surprising to me he hasn’t done it before now.”

Snape exploded. “But I can’t believe I let it happen! I should have never let you talk me into going away last night!” He leaped from his seat and paced back and forth.

Albus looked at him helplessly. “I was afraid you would react this way.” His expression was a mix of sadness and amusement as he said, “But tell me: did you have a nice time with Clarissa?”

Snape turned on him. “It was an utter fiasco. I should never have taken her! Now, please, give me back my map!”

He took the parchment from his friend and spoke, but with less heat. “Albus, I cannot allow anyone but myself to be responsible for this--this catastrophe.”  He went out in a swish of black wool.

 

Clarissa slept strangely well but awoke early, quite restless. She had an overwhelming urge to go for a run. “I can at least go out. I can get my blood up, even if I don’t go all the way to the trails.”

On her way across the bridge she saw the lone figure of Charity Burbage striding along the hillside.

As Clarissa ran along the hill, Charity turned towards her with a breezy greeting. “’Allo, dear. How are you?”

Clarissa pulled up alongside her. “I am well . . . enough.” What a liar, she thought.

Charity looked at her searchingly. “What’s up?”

“Oh, Great Martha, Charity! What isn’t up?”

Charity’s sympathy was the elixir Clarissa was seeking. Charity heard the entire tale of the last night’s meeting, Dumbledore’s announcement, the Elder Wand file, Snape’s home, the Legilimency, and her abrupt need to get out.

Charity grimaced. The two strode side by side for several minutes as Charity took in what she had heard. “First of all, I see that you’ve been through the ringer since Sirius died. I can understand why you needed to leave last night. It was just too much to take in.” Charity held Clarissa’s hand as they walked on.

Then Charity spoke very quietly and soothingly. “I’ve considered Severus a friend for rather a long time, Clarissa. Now you know he was the recipient of the missing file. But step back and consider it, if you can, from his point of view. He didn’t ask for the role of being its caretaker. He could have said no to it. But he didn’t. At great personal expense to himself, years ago he took on heavy amounts of responsibility.”

Clarissa thought about that for a few minutes as she gazed out over the fading green hillsides. She knew Charity’s observation rang true; logic told her it was not so different than the way Snape had taken on the role of being Harry’s protector. And agreed to kill his best friend.   _At great personal expense to himself. . . ._

Charity broke in. “Clarissa, what does your gut tell you about this man? You decided last night when you went to Cokeworth that you could trust Severus with anything. How does the knowledge of Madeline Creech’s death really change that?”

Clarissa stopped and looked up at the milky grey sky. Breathing in and out slowly, she put her hands on her hips. “He wasn’t honest. He kept this from me. I--I--just can’t help but feel like I am being duped.”

“We all have secrets, Clarissa. Don’t you?”

She reflected a moment. Would I have been willing to show Severus every nerve, every frayed edge, every vulnerability last night? She sincerely wondered. “Well, of course, I suppose there may be things I wouldn’t want to share with him.”

Charity’s voice was matter-of-fact, and not unkind. “Well, you didn’t exactly have to put your openness to the test, did you?”

 

Snape found a message had been delivered by owl early that morning. “Narcissa Malfoy requests a meeting with Severus Snape. Most urgent. Please reply today. May she find you at Spinner’s End at 4 p.m.?”

What was she up to? Or was this Lucius’s doing?

He sat at the desk and  wrote quickly with his quill pen. “Confirming meeting today with Narcissa Malfoy Spinner’s End 4 p.m.” and sent the missive back with the owl. He looked at the wall clock and saw he would still have a few hours to work on preparing the classroom laboratory for tomorrow before he left for Cokeworth. Of course, he had a good idea about how the manual part of the labor would be satisfactorily managed.

 

Harry, Ron, and Neville lay groaning in their beds as there was a loud rapping at the door. The curtains of their bedroom were drawn. It was noon, but they had not stirred since collapsing drunkenly at 2:30 a.m. Or was it 3:30? Harry had a very hazy memory of taking a pack of cards over to Hermione’s room but finding she was not interested in poker at that hour. Nor were any of her roommates.

“Who--who’s there?” Harry managed, hoarse, as he fumbled around the side of the bed for his glasses. His mouth was dry and tasted like a combination of ashtray and old socks.

He staggered to the door and opened it to find his worst nightmare. Severus Snape stood at the door, glaring down his beak-like nose at him.

 

“Boys, Miss McGonagall has heartily agreed that you will give me three hours of your time today, minimally, in exchange for the unauthorized leaving of school grounds in the night. You are receiving a light punishment, really, when one considers I have pressed for dismissal of students in the past for . . . similar offenses. You are responsible for washing each piece of laboratory glassware in this room by hand, placing each in the drying racks, and then counting out precisely 160 pieces of Devil’s Tongue onto every lab station in the room. I will be in the office if you have any questions or if you finish these tasks before three hours pass. No wands permitted.”

Ron, who was a horrid shade of light pea green, protested. “But professor, we’re really thirsty. And hungry. We haven’t even eaten today.”

Harry nodded, desperate for something to help rehydrate his shoe-leather mouth and calm his nasty, flip-flopping belly.

Snape ignored Ron’s plea for food as he looked around the laboratory for Neville. “Where is Mr. Longbottom?”

As if in answer, a loud retching noise was heard from the sinks at the back of the lab. Neville dragged himself into the room after a minute.

Snape waved his wand and produced three drinking glasses. “I will allow you water. Only,” he said, eyes narrowed. He swirled out.

Harry, Ron and Neville looked at each other in misery. The lab contained many hundreds of pieces of glassware, and there were 30 stations that would need 160 pieces of Devil’s Tongue each. It would take a miracle to get the job done that day.

 

At Spinner’s End a light rain had begun to fall making the early November afternoon quite chilly and dreary.  Snape let himself in and awaited the arrival of Mrs. Malfoy.

The house seemed foreign to him. Was it just hours earlier he had left there with Clarissa? . . . No use thinking about any of that now. It was clear that it had all been a terrible mistake. He wondered how he would tell her . . . or if he would even need to. She may never want to see him again.

He poured himself a drink of Byrrh’s and sat down heavily. The mantel clock ticked and tocked with preternatural volume in the quiet. The stone weight of sadness which had settled in his chest reverberated dully with each passing increment of time.

Mercifully, his attention was diverted when his guest arrived as the hour struck four.

“Welcome, Narcissa. What brings you to Spinner’s End?” As she stepped in, he helped the statuesque woman remove her cloak.  “May I pour wine for you? Vermouth? Or shall I make tea?”

“Wine, please, Severus, thank you,” said Narcissa. Her large brown eyes had always reminded him of a beautiful wide-eyed doe, and right now the resemblance was especially strong. Lovely, fine-featured Narcissa looked terrified.

She accepted the drink. She sat down on the divan across from her host and sipped with an unsteady hand.

“Severus. I need . . . your help. It’s . . . it’s for Draco. You know of the assignment he has been given.”

Snape nodded, slowly, with narrowed eyes.

Narcissa broke down. “Draco. . . . He is just a boy!” She cried. “We cannot allow his soul to be forever tainted! But the Dark Lord--”

Snape intoned quite softly and melodically, “If the Dark Lord has willed it, then he must. Besides, Draco _wants_ to prove himself.”

Narcissa’s jaw trembled. “Severus. This is my son. My only child . . .” She was fighting to control her tears.

Snape felt sickened. But he sneered just a little, and asked, “What . . . do you have in mind?”

Narcissa reached over to grip Snape’s arm tightly. “You must do the deed for him. You must agree. You have always . . . been so good to Draco. He looks up to you! Please. . . .” She swallowed hard in an effort to control her emotions, but then crumpled, resting her forehead on Snape’s forearm, weeping.

He stared at the head of long, glossy, platinum and black toned hair.

Her voice was muffled to a bare whisper. “It must never be known to the Dark Lord that I have come here. Nor to Lucius.” Now she brought her head up slowly to look at him through streaming eyes. She was more beautiful than ever in her distress.

“Severus, what can I give you in exchange for your help, and your silence? Please. Tell me. I will give you anything.”

“I might be . . . willing to help you,” said Snape, gazing down his nose at her.

Narcissa breathed out audibly. She still gripped his arm.

Snape’s voice was quiet. “I will require . . . a notebook. A book that is currently in your husband’s possession.”

Narcissa looked startled.

“A small black notebook contains records Lucius made of the Elder Wand file. I believe Lucius will know where--”

“I know where it is.” She spoke clearly. “I will give you what you want. Lucius is out for the afternoon. He will not interfere.”

“Well, then. We will fly together.”

She nodded, and looked up at him, squeezing his arm until he winced. “And then you will be willing to make . . . the Vow? To protect Draco?”

Snape nodded. “But of course. I will do the deed to spare your child.”

 

The flight to Malfoy Manor was perfunctorily achieved. Gesturing for Snape to follow her, Narcissa went straight to Lucius’s spacious study which was sumptuously upholstered in white leather. She went to a cabinet, and waved her wand to unlock it. She took out a wooden box which also required a wave of the wand to open. From inside it she removed a small leather-bound journal.  Narcissa waved her wand and soon another identical-looking notebook materialized by degrees in her hand, which she placed in the wooden box.

Narcissa extended the desired notebook to Snape. He tucked it into the inner pocket of his cape.

“Cissy? What’s going on?” Bellatrix Lestrange had appeared in the doorway. Her voice simmered with haughty disdain as she looked Snape over.

“Bella. Good evening.” Snape eyed her coolly.

Narcissa stood, tight-lipped as Bella flitted into the room.

“Really, Cissy. What have we here?  Where did you find this one? Slithering around outside in the mud?” Bella walked full circle around Snape and brushed dirt off the back of his cape.

Narcissa spoke quietly to her sister. “Bella. It’s good you are here. I need you.”

“Really? What is it you need?”

“It’s for Draco. You know he is assigned to kill Dumbledore Friday night.”

“Yes. I know. Rather a big moment for the boy.” Bella slumped down into the white leather easy chair.

“But that’s just it! He’s . . . too young. He can’t do it. I don’t want him to do it. It will taint his soul forever, you see. He’s--still a boy, Bella!”

Narcissa was scraping dirt from under her fingernails.

Snape spoke up. “Bella, I’ve agreed . . . to do the deed Friday night. It will be better for all concerned.”

“You? _You_ will kill your beloved Headmaster?”

His look was withering. “Of course.”

 

The Unbreakable Vow was completed minutes later. Standing in the study, Narcissa gripped Snape’s arm while Bellatrix sealed the exchange, holding her wand over them.

“Do you, Severus Snape, promise to protect Draco Malfoy on the night of November fifth by fulfilling the murder of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore?”

“I will,” intoned Snape.

“And do you further swear that you will protect Draco from all harm, until he comes of age?”

“I will,” said Snape.

“Then it is done,” said Bellatrix, waving her wand over the clasped arms of her sister and Severus Snape.

 

Outside the study door, Lucius Malfoy slipped noiselessly away.

 

As he made his way back to Hogwarts, Snape’s mind wandered to the dossier. _A shadowy Keeper of Secrets, the single son the Dark Lord trusts above all wizards else, must join with the House of Black._ Had the Prophecy been fulfilled as he took the Vow?

 

Clarissa swallowed hard and banged the metal knocker on the huge expanse of wood that formed the door to Snape’s dungeon residence.

“Severus,” she said, when he opened the door a slim portion.

He stood, pale face peering out at her warily.

“Severus, I’m--I’m sorry to disturb you. I--I came to apologize.”

He opened the door a tad further, barely allowing her in.

She walked through the dank space tentatively. A few flaming lamps provided dim, flickering light in the sitting room. It took her eyes a few moments to adjust. She turned to face him.

She had to stifle a gasp. This was not the genteel man she had come to know; this was instead the man she had met in the hall that very first day of school, introduced by Minerva. His eyes were flat discs. His hair hung lank at the sides of his face. He leaned back, away from her, imperious. And impervious. The blinds were drawn.

She forged ahead, after drawing in a deep breath. “Severus, I really am sorry for last night. I have done our relationship a disservice.” She nervously picked at lint on her sleeve. “I was rash. Reading you terrified me, momentarily. I was--not at my best. You know, there were a lot of shocks to take in.”

He spoke abruptly, putting a palm up. “Clarissa. Let me . . . stop you. This can really go no further. We can’t continue this.”

She peered up into his face. “What do you mean?”

“I mean . . . We can’t do this. I can’t do this.”

“Severus, what are you talking about?”

“I--I am very sorry if I have caused you any trouble.”

He turned towards the door.

She reached up to grab him by the back fabric of the tunic. “Hold on!” The force of her grip halted him.

She walked around him to see his face. Her lips had gone white; she spoke slowly and carefully.  “You are very sorry if you have caused me _trouble?_ Please, explain.”

Snape looked vastly uncomfortable at her proximity. He rearranged his tunic and cleared his throat. “You have not heard, then, what happened overnight. While I was . . . out.” The smooth deep voice cut like flint.

“While you were _out?”_ she repeated.

“Harry and his friends spent a portion of last night exposed to attack while drinking at the Hog’s Head pub.”

She stared at him. “And?”

He stared back, blankly. “And what?”

“Well, did anything happen to them? Were Death Eaters about?”

He shook his head. “Apparently not. The boys were very lucky.”

“Well,” she said. “No harm, no foul. Does Dumbledore know?”

“Well, yes. We only found out after the breach. From _Filch.”_ Snape seemed disgusted that Argus Filch was their source of information.

“Well, thank you for being so forthcoming. I do not, however, comprehend your unwillingness to sort things out between us, because Harry and his friends got drunk last night.”

“Clarissa. I don’t expect you to understand. I . . . I have a job to do here which I take very seriously. I overestimated my ability to let go of that role in order to be with you. But it simply will not work; it was a terrible mistake on my part. Therefore I must now apologize. I am very sorry, indeed. Now it would be best if you would leave.”

For a moment his eyes had flickered to brown; it was reassuring to know he was still in there. Somewhere. She gazed at him a long while.

From the bedroom came a series of six short chimes. Clarissa kept her gaze steady, steady, steady through each one. Snape’s face lost a shade of colour with every stroke, as he fumblingly turned her to the door. Then Clarissa head a voice from the bedroom. A smooth, silky, young female voice. “Severus, Harry is at dinner, upstairs. Safe and sound,” it said.

Clarissa’s eyes widened. Snape shut his own against her stare. She turned to stride quickly to the bedroom where she knew what she would find. She had already seen it.

The portrait had spoken. Lily Potter’s sweet, young face sat in a luminous frame next to his bed.

She strode resolutely back out to the dungeon foyer, shaking her head. “Severus, I bid you a fond farewell. I believe I have a healthy sense of self-confidence. But I cannot compete with a ghost. Please, the two of you: Enjoy yourselves.”

Her compact figure and bobbing brown curls were through the giant wooden doorframe, down the corridor and out of his sight in mere seconds.

 

Just after her simple dinner, while Clarissa was drinking a cup of black tea, there was a knock at her door accompanied by the lilting voice of Minerva.

“Clarissa, dear! Are you in?”

She opened to see the cheery, smiling face and ruffly black-clad figure of her elder colleague.

“Minerva! What brings you by?” she said.

“Oh, I thought I would see if you want to join Sybill, Charity and me for a round of bridge in my quarters. We could use a fourth. And . . .  a bottle.” Minerva winked.

Clarissa needed no further prodding. Drinking with friends trumped grading papers and feeling sorry for herself the rest of the evening.

 

“To Dumbledore, the only good one, who doesn’t even _like_ women!” Clarissa was drunk. The card game had deteriorated after several hands, with her colleagues consoling her over the Snape.

Sybill Trelawney poured another whisky and blinked at Clarissa through her thick glasses. “I think you would make such a lovely couple. He’s so . . . stylish!”

Charity nodded, and smiled. “He’s really quite handsome. In a unique way.”

Sybill sipped away, getting drunker by the minute. She was clearly unaccustomed to imbibing. Her natural shyness was obliterated. “Clarissa. Tell me. _Did_ you and Severus . . . You know . . .”

Clarissa looked miserable. “Well, not all the way. Good Martha and Giles! To think--I almost let him read me!” she wailed. “I read him, though.”

“Ohhhh.” A chorus of sympathy rose from the three other women.

Charity responded, “Full Legilimency in a romantic relationship can be very tricky. I’ve only been successful with one person.” Charity swallowed the whisky in her glass. “Sarah and I could always achieve it together.” She looked a little sad, grimacing, then smiled.  

Charity went on. “Of course, that fact supports my theory that women are more compatible with each other in every way that really counts.”

Clarissa raised her glass. “Women, yes! Yes! To women!”

Minerva patted her hand.

Sybill said, a tad sheepishly, “I’ve never been very adept at it. I mean, I think I’ve been close, once. I’m not sure if we actually were _fully_ . . .”

Minerva said with a fair amount of condescension, “Ohhh, if you had achieved full Legilimency with another, you’d _know_ it, dear. There’s absolutely no mistaking it!”

Clarissa slurped down the rest of her whisky and said hazily, “Ladies, I thank you for a wonderful evening. But I need to go and get into my bed! Tomorrow is a work day, if I remember right.”

Minerva nodded. “Indeed. But drink some water before you sleep, everybody!” She thought, None of us will wake up feeling exactly fresh, I warrant.

Sybill and Charity also said slurred goodnights to Minerva and made their way to their apartments.

 

“Draco, if you want something in this world--” Lucius took a long draught of his wine--“you have to _seize_ it. Truer words never spoken, my boy.”

Draco sat perched on the edge of the hearth near where his father stood drinking.

“Power without action is useless, Draco. . . . What gives power its full potential is _using_ it. You _must_ be willing to use it.”

Draco nodded. He rested his head on one hand.

Lucius prodded his son with a finger. “Draco. Pay attention. Friday night will be soon upon us. You’ve got to take power or it will be used against you.”

Draco gazed up at his father as if from a dream. The dark circles around his eyes looked to be part of his face now. The way he sat, staring--the position of his head perched in his hands made him look like an overgrown child. But his lined and ashen face also appeared many years older than sixteen.

“Snape may well aim to steal your moment in the limelight. I’ve known him a long time. Be on the lookout in the Tower. It will not surprise me if he makes an appearance. If he shows . . . you would be wise to take him out.”

 

That night Severus slept hardly at all, but was unconscious long enough to dream again of the lake.

_Albus Dumbledore walked alongside his friend. “Severus, I need you to do something for me. We will visit the shore together.”_

_“But Albus, it’s so cold today. We really should go back.”_

_“No. We need to go. Together. To the lake.” Albus’s voice was sharp flint._

_Severus felt an intense dread as they neared the waters of Black Lake. “Albus! I don’t want to go there. Please. Let’s go back to the castle. . . .” He was a child, pleading._

_Albus continued down the path to the water. He merely beckoned that Severus was to follow._

_At the water, Albus turned to face Severus. The old man stood very erect, arms across his chest. Then, he fell backwards into the water and disappeared. Snape watched, horrified, then ran into the murky water and reached for his friend. Albus’s arm shot up and held Snape like a vise. Severus reached down with both arms to raise Albus up, but the old man was like lead. Severus felt his own body being sucked into the inky depths._

_“Albus! Albus!” he cried. Severus felt the weight of the planet pulling against him and he felt his arms would be ripped out with the effort of trying to keep the body from sinking further down, down, down._

_Then suddenly, he felt the form of Albus Dumbledore became lighter than air and it rose. But the visage that bobbed up at the water’s surface was horrible. His friend was gone. In his place was the shredded, tattered face of a monstrous dead thing, bloodless and cold._

 

 


	24. Thestral Patronus

_Full Moon_

 

The next day was a trial. Clarissa was hung over and cranky, all the more crabbed when she remembered that the day would be long: tonight was the one night of the fall term set aside for parents to come to the school for conferences with teachers. Her heart went out to Draco, who seemed to be teetering on the brink. He looked even more ragged than the week before. His eyes were deeply rimmed with black circles and his skin looked frightfully dry and patchy.

She changed the activity she had planned in favour of a low-key library visit and research time. The kids seemed grateful for the substitution; they could see that their normally chipper, high-energy teacher was off her game. Being in the library also gave her the opportunity to stroll outside into cool air and sunshine to clear her head a few times throughout the day. And here, away from the classroom wing corridors, the chances of running into Severus were minimized. She did not see him.  

She managed to get through the day, and went home to nap. About 4:30 she awoke feeling much clearer in the head, but full of restless energy. For what, she couldn’t name.

The afternoon had become unseasonably warm: sunshine spilled over the hills, though it would be short-lived. It would be dark inside of an hour.

What would be super right now is a trail workout. A run, and flying along the ridge . . . She thought of the beauty of the woods in the fall, and how she had missed being in amongst the trees for the dramatic seasonal change. A calmly reasoning voice in her head told her to consider it carefully.

But it’s _so_ lovely out, she thought. I’ll certainly keep my wits about me. And my wand. I won’t go that far. This will be the perfect pick-me-up before Parent Night.

The run to the woods made her feel exhilarated. She bounded over the stream at the entrance to the forest with a sense of total freedom. And rebellion. Surely part of the attraction to coming out here was the fact that she knew quite well she shouldn’t be doing it.

Her mind relaxed as she roamed. Still stinging internally from Snape’s declaration the previous night, now there was some release of bottled emotions. The events at Spinner’s End did not seem real. Plenty of delightful touching. Legilimency. Her anger, confusion, and apology. And then abruptly he had simply . . . ended it. Striding uphill she wryly considered that perhaps she needed to avoid seemingly grown men whose entire relationship file consisted of a suicidal co-worker and a long-dead childhood sweetheart. And she.

But really, how much better have I done for myself? In school there had been plenty of fooling around. . . . It meant mostly nothing but did begin to make her aware of the range of sexual experiences one might entertain. Then there was Lucius, a married man. A man with a child. What in bloody hell had she been thinking? Then several soured friendships with men, and once, a woman, who wanted casual sex with no commitment. “Friends with benefits,” it was called. What she got from it was neither a good friend nor worthwhile benefits. Then there were the ones who had fallen madly in love with her but came apart when _she_ wanted casual sex with no commitment. Then, the long stretch of prison life.

As she crested the hill, she mounted the broom and flew. Soaring up out of the forest, late day sun pooled over the trees and bathed the castle in a shimmering, unearthly glow.

See, it’s all about timing, she mused. Two people have to be in sync, and want the same level of togetherness at the same time. The problem is, life only affords us a few of those opportunities, at best. She flew on. I really thought Severus was just . . . different. In the best way. I thought he was good for me. I thought for sure I was good for him. I thought we might be . . . in sync.

She swooped up, up, then dove back down into the trees and dismounted.

Shadows were fast overtaking the fleeing daylight. If she ran hard now, she would just make it back to the castle before night fell. She needed to shower and make herself presentable for the parents.

In the middle of the path a short distance ahead of her the shadowed figure of Fenrir Greyback appeared. She stopped suddenly.

“Clarissa Black . . . So nice to see you! A little birdie told me you were out on the trail.” He grinned at her revealing nasty blackened teeth. He raised his wand arm.

Clarissa prepared her own wand in a flash as she darted behind a tree. “Pleasant memory. Happiest memory. Now!” In her mind, she pictured herself on the couch at Spinner’s End next to Severus, her hair spilling over his legs. She felt entirely peaceful and protected.

She tilted her wand into the air, cried _“Expecto Patronum!”_ and stepped out from behind the tree. Her humongous thestral shield appeared as waves of bright green light which surrounded the dark figure of Greyback. She ran back full tilt the way she had come with her wand behind her maintaining the Patronus, thinking as steadily as she could about Spinner’s End.

She looked back once and saw Greyback far off in the distance, retreating. Soon she reached the edge of the forest where she tucked the patronus away, and sprinted hard the full distance back to the castle. She practically ran over a cluster of Hufflepuff girls just inside the main corridor, and muttered a quick, “So sorry.”

When she got to her quarters she slammed the door and threw herself down on the couch, exhausted and wailing.

“Bloody hell! Damn him!” Shrieking, she hit pillows, tearing one of them open and spilling goose down all over the parlour. She was thinking of Snape, not Greyback. How aggravating, to say the least, that her instinct in forming her patronus was to recall the aborted evening with Severus.

She retreated to the bathroom for the restoration miracle of hot water.

 

Finding Dobby at her door after dinner with a message that “Dumbledore would like to see you in his quarters, Miss” was not a complete surprise. Albus had a way of  knowing what was going on in his place, it seemed to her. She welcomed visiting the Headmaster, at any rate. Today was Tuesday. Dumbledore would die in three more days.

“Clarissa, dear, thank you for coming!” Dumbledore spoke heavily as if it required great effort. She noted his injured hand was completely black and the arm hung limp at his side as she leaned in to kiss his cheek.

“Albus. How--how are you feeling?” Her face was grave.

“Oh, my dear. Like I am dying! Mainly I feel very tired.”

She nodded. She didn’t know what to say.

“I am more concerned about _you_ at the moment. Please tell me about today on the trails.”

“How did you know I went on the trails?”

“I watched you leave, from the window. And I saw you come flying back like the devil himself were chasing you.”

“Oh! But of course . . .” She searched his face to see if he were hiding anything, but he appeared full of simple concern. She debated whether or not to tell him about Greyback. But why did she have the feeling he already knew the whole story?

“I’m--I’m embarrassed to tell you . . . Greyback found me in the forest. I had to use my Patronus Charm. I got away safely, but of course, it was careless of me. I should not have gone.”

Dumbledore nodded at her. He spoke paternally. “I am glad it was not more serious. But my dear, you should have known better. What was to be gained by such a blatant violation of my directive? Flaunting the rules, my dear, has been a way of yours. Even when you were a student here. Do you recall the time you were in the Hufflepuff boys’ quarters, after hours? . . . Who was it? The Bascombe fellow? . . . And then there was the time you met his brother outside the castle, in the night. No harm came to you in these instances, but now, you should be well past this behavior.”

She stared at him, her cheeks aflame.

“Your affair with Lucius was part of the pattern. And then he was able to use your choice against you.”

She wondered if Albus were going to catalogue more embarrassing moments.

“Please understand, my dear,” he said, putting his good hand on her knee gently, “My concern _here_ is not for your morals! This is a matter of placing yourself in peril.” He shook his head. “You Blacks.” He paused, sipping his drink. “You see, my dear, risks must be measured, both against the alternative consequence, and the reward. In Azkaban, you managed secretly to form a Thestral Patronus that enabled you and Sirius to escape. Had you stayed, you both would have surely died, or gone insane. Jeopardizing your own personal safety paid off handsomely. But going out for exercise in the Forbidden Forest?” He clucked his tongue. Fawkes twittered as if affirming his master’s disapproval.

“Albus, I know what I did was foolhardy. And . . . I will reflect on your observation.” She looked down at her hands in her lap. “Please do not tell anyone about today. Especially Severus.”

His eyebrows arched. “Really? I should think you would tell him yourself.”

She shook her head. “I--I won’t. He said he doesn’t want to see me.”

Now much to her embarrassment she found herself fighting back tears. Her jaw trembled. She stood up and walked to the window, her back to him.

“Indeed?” Albus said softly. He waited.

Clarissa turned back to him, wiping her face.

“He takes his job of protecting Harry very seriously. Apparently, I am an unwelcome distraction.”

Dumbledore chuckled. “Oh, my, yes you _are_ a distraction. But hardly an unwelcome one, in the long run! He’s . . . he’s not used to _any_ distractions, Clarissa. This is strange, new territory. Give him time. I believe he’ll come around. He needs you, you know, and soon will be needing you more than ever.”

Dumbledore had led Clarissa to a silk-covered divan. He sat down hard next to her, and she put out an arm to steady him. She struggled to find words for the questions that were churning in her mind now. A sense of urgency pressed her; Dumbledore’s patient wisdom would soon be gone.

“Sir, with all due respect, I rather suspect that Harry Potter is Severus’s excuse for staying closed off.” She spoke in a rush of words that surprised her. She didn’t even know she had been reasoning this out. But it made sense.

“An excuse? But he does care tremendously about keeping Harry safe.”

“But he knows Harry is growing up. He may cling to the role of ensuring his safety, like any . . . parent would. But it’s more than that. It’s about Lily.”

Again she knew she had spoken the truth without having considered her words beforehand.

Albus looked at her, waiting.

She exclaimed, “Of course! If he lets go of having to be the one responsible for Harry, then he is not being true to his first love. He might have to let her go, too.”

“A wise observation.”

“But that’s it. That’s all. He doesn’t want to give up his devotion to Lily.”

Dumbledore’s eyebrows indicated he was waiting for her to say more. She hadn’t a clue what else there was.

“It is about Lily,” he said. “I am sure you have that right. But even more than that, it’s about you.”

Clarissa scoffed. “Me? What about me? I think it’s obvious that he prefers being in control. So, cut me out, and he’s back to being in control.”

Dumbledore was matter-of-fact. “What do you think he fears most right now?”

“Losing Harry. That’s clear. It totally unnerved him that Harry was at risk. And that would mean, breaking a kind of promise to Lily. To keep her son safe, since he feels guilty for her death. He’s . . . completing a penance.”

“Yes . . .”

Clarissa said miserably, “And . . . I’m the problem. He was with me Sunday night.”

Dumbledore patted her arm. Bloody hell. Stop humoring me, old man.  But then she grabbed hold of his papery hand. How precious his touch was. And how fleeting.

He shifted to a new line of inquiry. “My dear, it’s very clear to me you are in love. Tell me, what is it you love about Severus?”

Clarissa blinked at him. “What do I love about him? I love a lot of things.” Eyes, nose, tall gallant figure, waltzing skills, excellent kisser . . . I thought he loved me, was really very sure he loved me . . . “I just . . . do.”

Dumbledore shook his head. “No. No. People don’t just fall in love. There is something _there_ that you love. Particular qualities attract us. And I believe there is at least one particular attribute that compels you.”

She stared at him, nodding slowly. “I--I--I gather what you are saying. But I’m not exactly sure . . . what that might be.”

“Think hard on it. My wish for you, as I will be leaving you soon: Contemplate my question. And when you know the answer, please, tell him. I believe it will make all the difference.”

Now Dumbledore took on a more business-like manner. He sat up straight and drew his good index finger to his lips. “Now, you need to understand something. Regardless of what is going on with romance, the two of you will need to work closely together on the night of the fifth.”

Her heart dropped. “Albus. That will be--terribly awkward.” She swallowed. “But of course, whatever you need. Whatever the Order needs.” She was dreading Friday night on several levels.

“By now you have seen the Prophecy about your family, and about you.”

“Well, no.” She was confused.

“Ah. Right. Well, I believe Severus had every intention of showing you the entire Prophecy through his mind that night in Cokeworth.”

She waited.

“Severus and I believe the Prophecy points to you as the future and final Mistress of the Elder Wand.”

She laughed. “Me? I’m named in the Elder Wand Prophecy?”

“Not exactly named, no.”

“Well, how does it work then? Does it give my birthdate or something? Children’s rhymes? Something about a blonde gone curly brown with a--” She stopped, recalling Severus’s need for a Bulgarian translation. “A Badger-Haired Witch.” She looked at Albus, expectant, and then laughed heartily. “Blimey! A Crone with Badger Hair is named in the Prophecy!” She sat down, shaking her head. “Do you really believe all that, Albus? It’s completely daft!”

He put his healthy right hand lightly on her leg. “But of course I believe it. And the Prophecy will certainly play a role in how we proceed Friday night. My dear, I am very old. I feel compelled to respect the lore of the ancients. I can’t tell you precisely why I am inclined to believe it. I only can tell you, there is something there worthy of our respect. To ignore the Prophecy is to ignore previous generations of faith, life experience, and awareness of forces in this universe that we are not capable of understanding on our own.” Dumbledore sighed and breathed deeply several times. He was visibly drained.

Clarissa put her hand on his arm. “I--I have always had nothing but utmost respect for you, Headmaster. I would give almost anything . . . for us to be able to keep you with us.” She looked down, before staring straight at him. ”But I do not wish my life to be ruled by mystical pronouncements on parchment. I don’t understand why we should let the ancients dictate our actions Friday. But having made my feelings clear, I will nevertheless comply with whatever plan you outline.”

Dumbledore smiled and looked over his glasses at her. “This is why I hired you, my dear. You never were one to take anything purely on faith!” He patted her arm and said, “Minerva will be on duty for the parent conferences tonight, and I know you wish to go prepare. We will speak again. Thursday evening.”

 

Lucius Malfoy landed lightly on a knoll overlooking Hogwarts. Outwardly, the place had not changed since his own years as a Prefect in Slytherin House.  But inside, everything had gone to hell. Dumbledore’s reign. He glanced at his gold pocket watch. Narcissa would now be well into talks with Draco’s teachers.

He sniffed, spat, tucked his gold-tipped cane under an arm and took a long draught from his platinum pocket flask. Daft system! Chatting with teachers about a child’s academic _progress!_ Right bollocks. But he was gratified by the occasion: the number of parents milling about the place would allow him to search without being tracked, at least for a little while.

Time to take my own advice. Power without action? Useless.

He strode across the hillside and through the doors of the Commons area, turning immediately towards the library.

It all seems to hinge upon the women, he said to himself, and shook his head as he walked swiftly along the wall, nodding to a few people who made eye contact, or said hello to him. The spacious corridor was not so crowded as he had hoped; he supposed most were in classrooms. The women of the House of Black . . .

He recalled that when he had made notes of the dossier’s contents he had deliberately altered some lines, in case . . . Voldemort got hold of them. Or someone from the Order. Obscuring the exact wording would be his power. Well, fat load of good it had done him when Voldemort tortured him mercilessly, even after he handed the notes over to be read and recorded by Nagini. Then the Dark Lord had returned the book to him like a token of his impotence. He felt for the slim black volume in his breast pocket, and frowned. Narcissa was a skilled witch, but was she really _brilliant?_ Or, had there been more in the original Prophecy to indicate . . . which woman was destined to be the Wand’s final mistress? Perhaps he had missed something.

His mind’s eye presented Clarissa Black lying back on his desk, golden hair framing her face, brilliant, deep blue eyes shining with intelligence, and longing. . . .

Then he recalled the story of her escape from Azkaban. Escape! Word was she had created a Patronus in prison. A Thestral, no less. Inside the  grimmest place on the planet, with nightly attacks by dementors, she had summoned the strength to give birth, as it were, to the most impressive, most unlikely Patronus imaginable. She had been witness to death, or she would not have had access to the Thestral. The image of the shorn, thin, beaten Clarissa gathering her magic in the dark, alone, night after night. How fantastic. . . .

 _The most Brilliant Witch of her generation will be revealed within the House of Black._ That part of the wording he was sure of. And he felt confident he knew her identity. He would deal with her later.

He had arrived at the library doors, which stood open and warmly lighted. The place was positively crawling with insipid parents, some holding tiny cups of punch in their hands, and cookies. He strode past the front desk.

“Sir! Sir! The library collections are currently closed.”

He paused and spun around on his heel to face Irma Pince, the Hogwarts Librarian.

“I beg your pardon?” he said in icy tones, head thrown back.

“Oh! Mr. Malfoy! Well, this is a most unusual time for you to visit the stacks. Really, though, I must discourage--”

“Madam Pince. I would remind you that you are not only in the presence of a Board member, but also a member of the Family Black, with express permission to visit the Phineas Nigellus Black Collection at any time.”

“Oh, yes, well. Your wife--”

He pointed the head of his cane towards her. “Is a member of the House of Black. As is my son. Now, if you will excuse me for not staying to make small talk longer, I will continue with my business.”

He swept past the thin, pale, raven-haired woman with pointed features who stood pursing her lips, clucking her tongue behind the desk.

Lucius made his way to the special reading room of Black Family manuscripts. Troyan Monastery had yielded nothing, when he searched it through and through one night as all the residents slept under a spell. He had paid Kreacher handsomely to plunder 12 Grimmauld Place for the thing. Again, nothing. Now, he mused anew on Albus Dumbledore. . . . The wielder of the Elder Wand. By summer Dumbledore would have learned the accusations that Lucius leveled against Clarissa. The Headmaster may well have had this information in mind when he hired her.

That past Sunday night, Dumbledore, Snape, Clarissa, and Harry had all been out of the castle. A meeting of the Order, perhaps. His fast ferreting of the Headmaster’s quarters had turned up no traces of the Wand file.

But what more perfect place for Clarissa Black to secret the file, than in the family collections, providing the darling, adored old man access to tremendous power. And eternal life. . . .

He entered the reading room as lights flickered on. He reached into his breast pocket to grasp the notebook and flipped it open, ruffling through the pages. _A shadowy Keeper of Secrets, the single son the Dark Lord_ \--here he had written _fears,_ but he could not recall if that had been a change he intentionally made from the original-- _above all wizards else, must join with the House of Black. The Order of the Phoenix will recognize the potency of the union._ An image of Severus Snape and his own wife, standing with Bellatrix, flashed into his mind as he had pictured them while listening to the Unbreakable Vow. Snape. Now aligned with two women of the House of Black. His blood ran colder as he took another, longer draught from the flask. What chance was there for him? That he himself was the subject of the Prophecy?  Around him, the air began to feel thick and heavy.

Lucius fumed, cursed as he bashed his foot into a heavy wooden table leg.

He looked all around the cramped space. Where would one find that bulky file in here? There were dusty boxed manuscripts everywhere. It could take weeks to look through each one carefully.

Then he remembered a spell for searching, finding certain key words in a document one was examining. Draco had learned the innovative spell recently, in Advanced History of Magic class. Clarissa’s class. He smiled to himself and chuckled. “Yes. That would have surely been helpful in that dusty, moldy library of hers at Troyan.”

He held up his wand and spoke. _“Invenieto: Single Son Keeper of Secrets!”_

About a dozen small puffs of smoke emerged one by one, like soft grey bubbles from the tip of his wand. Forming strange clouds, they moved first to the floor, then up and down row after row of the various stacks of documents that filled the PNBDA Collection. Lucius watched hungrily as the grey poofs moved methodically along. Gradually, as each one finally reached the ceiling, the cloud became wispy-thin and disappeared.

Lucius’s face and shoulders sagged.

He wiggled the wand again and cleared his throat. _“Invenieto: Most Brilliant Witch.”_ Again puffs of smoke danced off the end of his wand and flew to each wall of the cramped reading room. The clouds moved to the floor then slowly up the walls. One cloudy mass hovered near a volume entitled: _Origins of Shakespeare’s Witches._

Eagerly Lucius snatched the book from the shelf, and the cloudy puff maneuvered through its pages, ruffling them until settling on a passage of Holinshed’s _Chronicles_ devoted to the Weird Sisters who tempt Macbeth to kill King Duncan. Nothing about the Elder Wand. This was not the dossier, cloaked by a cryptographic spell. Exasperated, Lucius flung the useless volume to the floor.

“Bloody fucking Hell!” he exploded, at no one but the wisps of grey smoke lingering  near the ceiling.

There was a brief noise of footfalls in the corridor leading to the PNDBA Collection. Severus Snape’s tall, black-robed form filled the doorway.

“Ah, Snape! Still creeping around the place, I see.”  Lucius smoothed the front of his tunic as he kicked the wayward volume of Shakespeare history under the table where he stood.

“Good evening . . . Lucius. What a strange . . . coincidence that our paths would cross here in the Black Family reading room.”

“Well, Snape. Is it a coincidence, actually? Are you eager to know what I have been reading lately? Or do you have some larger purpose in coming down here tonight?”

Snape eyed him with his head tilted ever so slightly to the side. “When I heard you had put in an appearance, I wondered if I may have overlooked something. Were we meant to meet . . . here to discuss Draco’s progress? You know I am a champion of your son’s intellect. And this year in Potions is his best to date. Though lately, I must admit, he seems just a mite weary.”

“How did you know I was here, Snape?”

“I have many ways . . . Lucius.”

Throwing his hair back, Lucius again brushed the front of his tunic with a delicate gesture and walked crisply to the doorway, the cane clicking on the floor. “If you will excuse me, Severus, I must keep an appointment with another of my son’s teachers.”

Lucius exited the PNDBA collections and swished past a narrow-eyed, vulturish Madam Pince.

He fumed. Snape! Keeping an eye on my whereabouts. He would certainly have the means, spies about the place. That buzzard of a librarian. Exactly Snape’s type of informant. And it would be just like Snape to save himself the work, by jumping on my coattails when I find the file.

Lucius made his way to the academic wing and climbed two flights of stairs, arriving at room 318.   _Ms. Clarissa Black, Department of Historical Wizarding Studies._

Clarissa’s slim, petite figure stood at the board, her back to him. She was writing. How quaint, he thought. Chalking tomorrow’s notes up by hand.

Lucius Malfoy blithely waved a wrist; the classroom door slowly swung shut with an accelerated creaking and a clunk.

Clarissa continued writing for several moments then set the chalk down with a click. She brushed her hands off in deliberate fashion before she rotated around on high black patent heels.

“Lucius. Good to see you, as always. But . . . your wife was already here tonight. Did you have more questions about Draco’s progress?”

“Well, yes.” Mr. Malfoy strode slowly towards her, smiling almost sweetly. “Miss Black. I . . . I must say, you are looking rather smashing. Azkaban . . . may have in fact improved your beauty.” His eyes roamed her figure from floor up.

Clarissa stifled a laugh. Can he be serious? Flirting? But his face registered sincere appreciation. She felt a momentary pang of old longing for that beautiful face and tall, athletic figure. Warning bells sounded in her brain. Remember the man you’re dealing with. Longing was quickly replaced with a wave of acute disgust as she thought of the dementors that still occasionally inhabited her dreams. “Well, Mr. Malfoy--”

He nodded at her disarmingly.

“Certainly, Lucius, we ought to--we might discuss Draco’s progress to date. I must say, he is typically an eager scholar.” She indicated a pair of seats near them. Lucius had continued to stand, surveying her from a short distance. “Please, make yourself . . . at home.”

He complied, bowing rather formally.

She lost her train of thought for a moment. “Well. Mr. Malfoy. Are there specific questions about your son’s work?”

He raised a gloved finger to his mouth slowly and shook his head. “I think not. I have a clear picture of his work . . . here.” He stared at her so hard she felt blushingly naked. “Besides, Narcissa always keeps me abreast of these matters.” He drew his fingertip lightly across his upper lip while maintaining eye contact.

“Oh, right. Well.” She seemed to wake a little as out of a fog. “So, what do we have to discuss, then?” She breathed in quite slowly and deeply, gathering herself. Her mind was now on highest alert against spells, charmed cufflinks, whatever Lucius might throw her way.

Lucius leaned in close. “Actually, I just . . . wanted to see you, Clarissa. It’s . . . very good to _see_ you.” He leaned back in the sturdy wooden pupil chair, legs crossed in front of him, cane propped.

She eyed him narrowly, waiting.

“Clarissa,” he said, examining his gloved hands from different angles, “I have to wonder how you are getting along in your new role? From all accounts you certainly are engaging students. Draco speaks . . . most highly of you. But is teaching fully satisfying to someone of your unique gifts? A woman of your . . . abilities might be needing . . .  additional stimulation, about now. Perhaps I can be of some service. For example, the ministry is always on the lookout for excellent educators who are willing to . . . carefully watch colleagues who aren’t performing up to snuff.”

She stared hard at him. What in all bloody hell was he trying to accomplish? Did he think she would still fall for his brand of sexual innuendo and power play? “I’m not interested in a job spying for the Ministry, Lucius. I am quite happy teaching history.”

Lucius leaned in, closer this time, drumming his fingers on the desktop just in front of her folded arms. “Clarissa. Are you aware that as a Board member I examine several resumes per day from highly capable scholars seeking positions . . . in Wizarding schools? Why would you believe that your job is protected . . . in a special way?”

She nearly laughed.  “Lucius Malfoy! Did you come here to threaten my job?”

His eyes narrowed. “No. Merely to remind you how lucky you are to be here at Hogwarts. And to perhaps . . . expand your horizons.”

“Oh, indeed,” she said. “I heartily agree with you that I am lucky. And I appreciate what I have here.” She stood, eyes flashing violet sparks. “Lucius, if you would, please, I have work to do to prepare to teach the children tomorrow. You are so tremendously out of line--”

He now stood, eyes flashing. His wand was out in a split second.

Simultaneously she drew her own wand which was in his face so swiftly that it grazed the end of his nose with a small sizzling sound, forcing a short, barked “Ouch!” as a puff of smoke rose from Lucius’s face. He stepped back from her, fiery hate in his eyes.

“Bloody trollop,” he shouted, throwing his fine platinum head back. “To Hell with your whole lot!” He spun away from her on his boot heel.


	25. Control of the Storyline

Fawkes’s brilliant plumage swished protectively about the head and shoulders of his master, who leaned back in his winged chair.

Severus sat across from his friend, digestif glass in hand. “Albus, how are you feeling?”

“As well as can be expected, I’m sure. . . . I’m tired. I suppose that I am ready.”

Snape grimaced and gazed at his friend with a sad smile.

Dumbledore sipped and asked, “Are you aware that Lucius made an overture of sorts towards Clarissa? Last night?”

Snape’s eyebrows rose, and he shook his head faintly. “I knew he was here. I found him in the Black Reading Room. And I saw on the map that he met with her. But no, I did not know he was getting so desperate as to try to . . . reconnect.”

“The man is obsessed with making himself the subject of the Prophecy, one way or another.” Albus shifted carefully in his seat. “It is clear to me that Lucius did have a long term plan for the dossier. The notes were his carefully constructed backup for when he would secret the file. Then, Madeline interfered.”

Snape looked grim. “But why seek the file here, now? He wouldn’t suspect something about Madeline. No one knew of her feelings for me.”

“No. It’s more probable he has come to fear _your_ role in the Prophecy, and Clarissa’s role. Maybe he thinks you stole the file. Or that she did. Or that I asked her to. After all, I have the Wand. Lucius would never believe the truth, that I do not seek the power that comes from holding both.”

Snape nodded, slowly, taking in Albus’s line of reasoning. “Yes. And he would naturally suspect Clarissa of doing your bidding.” Snape sat back in his chair and swirled his glass, contemplating. “When she returned from Bulgaria five--no, six--years ago, he must have become uncomfortable with her proximity--”

“Narcissa. It was Narcissa, probably, who was uncomfortable. And made him uncomfortable.”

“Yes. So quite suddenly, the Ministry is keen on punishing Clarissa Black for years-old murders neither she nor Sirius committed.” He shuddered. “Five years in Azkaban, Albus. She has paid in so many ways. While I . . .”

“While you . . . ?”

Severus stared at his hands holding his drink. He shook his head. “It does no good to dwell on my own remorse. We need to be prepared for Lucius’s next move.”

Albus sipped with an unsteady hand. Fawkes’s tail feathers swished his master’s shoulders. “Tell me more about the notebook you were able to procure from Lucius’s study. Was it illuminating?”

Snape brightened, looking up. “I am progressing through the notes to be sure of what they contain. So far, they reveal the expected: Lucius recorded that the Black family are to be Final Masters of the Wand in alliance with the Dark Lord, specifying the children of Orion and Walburga Black as being a threat. But so far, the Bulgarian passages are not referenced.”

“So he was unable to determine the meaning of that very particular regional phrase. But he worked to make the prophecy more pointed, to minimize the danger to his wife and son. And he made Sirius’s life shorter.”

“Yes,” said Snape. “He also altered a part of the Prophecy about the role of a ‘Single Son Keeper of Secrets.’”

“Indeed?”

“‘A single son, most trusted by the Dark Lord’ became ‘most feared by the Dark Lord.’”

“That’s curious. . . . The trusted Single Son could well be you. I wonder what Malfoy had in mind by changing ‘trust’ to ‘fear’?”

“Lucius may hope the trusted son is himself. Or even Draco. At any rate, Malfoy preferred that Voldemort think along other lines.” Snape shrugged. “Maybe Karkaroff is a ‘Single Son’? I would guess he knows that you have a brother.”

Dumbledore nodded. “What else about this Single Son?”

Snape looked at his glass. “According to the Prophecy, he will join with the House of Black. And be a key to ending the war.”

Dumbledore looked thoughtful. “Well. Again ambiguous. He’s married to a Black, and you are in love with one.”

Severus stared ahead.

Dumbledore stretched his legs and drained his glass, setting it down. “So, Severus. I am not of a mind to waste words with you now. I can be frank on the point of Clarissa Black?”

Severus nodded. “You may.”

“You are aware that she . . .  is in love with you, too.”

Severus shifted a little in his seat. “I am aware.”

“And you are aware that for a woman like her to tolerate your . . . idiosyncrasies . . . your general personality . . . _and_ your looks . . . is a wonder?” Dumbledore’s eyes were twinkling faintly.

Severus smiled faintly. “I am aware.”

“Well, that’s all good to hear. I am quite happy for the two of you. Pour me another drink, man.”

Severus refreshed Albus’s drink from the droplet-covered bottle.

“But Albus, having feelings doesn’t mean that I have the freedom to act on them. We have recently broken things off.”

Albus sipped, eyebrows cocked. “Why?”

Severus breathed in deeply.

“I allowed her to read my mind in Cokeworth.”

“And?”

“And . . . she was infuriated. About my receipt of the file.”

“Ah, yes. And shocked about Madeline.”

Snape looked sad and resigned. “I am not cut out for this, Albus.”

Albus waited.

“I am not capable of doing my job, and . . . forming a relationship.”

“Your job? Teaching?”

“No, certainly not.” Snape resituated himself in his seat. “My job . . . of guarding Harry. Albus, I do not blame you for the other night . . . but if I had been the one watching, I certainly would have prevented him from going out.”

“And how would that look different today?”

“It wouldn’t. But if something had happened to him . . .”

“Ah. What about it?”

“If anything had happened, I would never be able to forgive myself.” Snape stared down into his glass.

“I understand more than anyone how you feel there. But you and I must accept that we cannot control the outcome for Harry.” Albus placed his good hand on his friend’s knee, very gently. “Severus. You know that Harry may die in the showdown that is due with the Dark Lord. The July Prophecy points to it.”

Snape was wide-eyed as he gazed at the Headmaster. “Of course I know he might die. We have always known it. But I will die protecting him, as needed. Which is another reason why to enter a relationship with Clarissa is . . . ill-timed and irresponsible.” Snape shifted in his seat again. “It was self-indulgent of me to entertain even for a moment the possibility that she could be more than a friend. I am a marked man, Albus, and I have been marked from the beginning.”

Albus’s eyebrows arched in some surprise.  “Ah.”

Snape’s quick reply was edged with a mite of irritation. “What do you mean, ‘ah’?”

Albus smiled. “I mean, Clarissa is a marked woman even more than you are a marked man. We know Voldemort has targeted her.”

Snape spoke flatly. “Yes.”

Albus continued. “It’s clear that you are willing to die for our cause. Do you think she feels the same way?”

Snape blinked at him. “About dying?”

Dumbledore nodded, sticking his lower lip out.

Snape mused. “I imagine she would be willing to die, if needed. . . . She certainly put her life on the line the night Sirius was killed.”

“Well. So you will have to consider the possibility that both of you will die, in protecting Harry. Or . . . ” He paused several moments.  “And if that is so, it is possible that one of you--or both--will live.”

“That is simple enough logic,” Snape fairly snapped.

“Yes, my dear friend. I am stating the obvious truth for a reason.”

Snape was silent. He stared into his glass, slowly and deliberately swirling the dark red liquid first clockwise, then counter-clockwise, then back the other way. Then he shook his head. “The Prophecy seems to indicate she is destined to be the Final Mistress of the Elder Wand.”

“Indeed. Though it says nothing about her life being preserved in the process.”

Snape stared at him, recalculating the scenarios of disarmings, deaths that had played out in his mind many times before. “But . . . her dying . . . really, it seems impossible. The prophecy focuses on immortality. The holder of the Wand and the file would be rendered immortal. With or without the file, as the Wand’s final Mistress, she is very powerful indeed.”

Dumbledore arched his brows. “Do you believe Clarissa would ever be willing to hold both the dossier and the Wand? To use them for her own gain? You have tried to convince me to use the documents Friday night in order to stay alive. You know the great danger of such a rash use of artifacts. It would be uncharacteristic of her to do so, would it not?”

“Yes,” agreed Snape. “It would be uncharacteristic.” He seemed deflated, as if the idea of a power-hungry Clarissa mastering the Wand and file had offered a sweeter picture than the option involving her death.

Albus’s voice was gentle. “Severus, you seem almost dedicated to the idea of your own demise as a kind of solution. You may well master the Wand the night I die . . . but I know you would never be willing to hold the file at that point. No, Severus. You, like me, will choose death, even when given the option of immortality. Death is a final answer and an easier one, in many ways, than living. Far tidier than facing the messiness of guilt. Of shame. Of fear. I am aware of the chaotic forces of these emotions. I know them in my life and I certainly recognize them in yours. But Severus, you are still a young man. You are full of life! And . . . you are in love.”

Severus stared ahead.

“Are you willing to accept that you cannot control the story of Lord Voldemort and Harry, yourself and Clarissa Black? As much as you are willing to die for the Order, you may in fact be asked to live for it. No matter the outcome for the others.”

Snape nodded, sadly. “But Albus, is it absolutely necessary for her to be on the scene Friday night? It seems likely . . . to complicate matters.”

Albus was resolute. “She is too closely associated with Wand Prophecy. I feel it in my bones that the role she plays is crucial. She must be there. Besides, she offers another layer of protection for Draco. And for you, too.”

Snape scowled. “I will not be wanting her _protection._ I am really rather afraid Friday night will be a case of too many cooks in the kitchen. The process may be muddled by her presence.”

“That may be. We will talk further tomorrow night. But tell me, why were you so intent upon getting the notebook from Lucius?”

Snape looked surprised by the question. “We need to know what Voldemort thinks is indicated by the Prophecy. So that our strategy can be adjusted accordingly. What Clarissa herself raised at the meeting got me thinking, that we can’t assume Lord Voldemort knows the entire Prophecy, or that he received an accurate account of it.”

“And there was no other motivation for you personally?”

Snape looked wary. “What do you mean?”

“I mean . . . that you seem very concerned about Clarissa Black.”

Snape shook his head. “She can take care of herself. Clearly.”

Dumbledore abruptly changed the subject. “Have you had more dreams about the lake?”

Severus’s face clouded. “I have had several more. . . . That’s five now.”

Albus waited, as Fawkes swished his tail and twittered softly overhead.

Snape gathered himself to speak. “You know of the first two: one was ambiguous, the drowning of a woman, but it was difficult to say who she was. The second dream was of Madeline’s death. Since then I had a dream that was clearly Lily. Drowning. Voldemort was with me on the lake shore, laughing. I was helpless and could not prevent it. . . .” His face became drawn and pale as he spoke. “The fourth dream . . . was you. I was holding onto you . . . under water . . . trying to stop you from sinking. But I couldn’t do it. . . .” His voice became very thin, and then broke. He looked frantically at Albus and bent over, placing his forehead on Albus’s knees. He cried.

Albus placed his hand on his friend’s glossy black head and simply held it there. They sat for several minutes. The quiet was punctuated with Severus’s ragged, choked breaths.

Taking his friend’s arm, Snape sat up and straightened his tunic. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face off as he continued, breathing heavily, “Albus, the dream was . . . horrific. I woke up . . . nearly ill.”

Albus shook his head, looking down at the floor. “Dear man, I am so sorry.”

“Albus. You are so strong. You would never abuse power. I believe if we could agree to retract our pact about the Wand file . . . your death could be prevented. You could be . . . saved. Healed. If you possessed the file, you would live. Even temporarily. We could find a remedy for your injury. . . . Perhaps amputation . . .” The words tumbled from him pleadingly, like a child begging for something long hoped for. Something the child knows is impossible.

Albus shook his head slowly. “You know it can never be. I may be strong, but I would never defy nature in that way. The risks to the Order are too great, not to mention, to my soul.” He shook his head. “No, Severus. It is my time. Though it pains me much to see the impact on you.”

Snape collected himself and sat up tall. “I can manage this, Albus.”

“But, man, you need not be so stoic as to try to do it on your own! You ought to have support! And you could have it . . . in Clarissa, if you would utilize her friendship.”

Snape shook his head and was ready to protest. Albus stopped him.

“Severus, I have a confession to make.” His blue eyes were shining, warm. “I wanted Clarissa here at Hogwarts, partly for you. Of course, I wanted her for our students, and for me as well.”

Snape blinked back at him. “What do you mean? Partly for _me?”_

Albus shrugged and stroked Fawkes’s bright tail. “I had a . . . premonition, as it were. A vision. That she would be helpful to you. And I believe she already has been.”

Snape’s stare was all cool, arched-brow amazement. “Even knowing the Prophecy about the Black family? The proximity of the file? And . . . you also knew, I suppose, that Sirius wanted her here as a spy?”

Albus nodded, happily. “I do like to keep an interesting mix of personnel on hand.” His face clouded. “Of course, at times that hasn’t worked out so well. . . . But I believe there was one more dream you were going to tell me about.”

Severus looked distracted, still processing the information about Clarissa’s hire. He paused, and continued, a little absently, “The most recent dream . . . was just last night. It was Harry this time. He cursed me, called me names, and walked into the lake. Lily was with me. We stood together on shore and watched him disappear.” He looked at Albus expectantly.

“Very revealing, all of your dreams.”

“Perhaps,” was all Snape said, though he wondered a little if Dumbledore had read the dream he had not mentioned. One that was not about the lake. A dream of dying and meeting Lily again.

Albus queried, “What do you think the dreams signify?”

Snape looked tired. “I don’t really feel up to analyzing them, beyond what I suppose is obvious to anyone: I have been scarred by Lily’s death, and Madeline’s, and I have a kind of warped saviour complex with Harry.”

“I am glad you see all that. I would only add: it is clear to me that in each dream, you have felt varying degrees of responsibility for someone who has died. Or in Harry’s case, someone you fear will die. And you feel helpless to control the situation. Except with me, where you are placed in the dreaded role of doing the deed yourself.”

Snape nodded, a little absently.

Paternal concern was etched on Dumbledore’s ancient face.

“Please, Severus. Consider allowing yourself to have support as you go through this. There is no need to experience such hardship entirely on your own.”

 

Clarissa came out of the bathroom mopping her damp curls with a towel. She roamed about her quarters, completed a short yoga routine, then searched for a good book, hoping to occupy her mind till she became sleepy.

Finally she crawled between the cool sheets with her Milton folio and revisited _Paradise Lost._ She went straight to Book IV, drawn to Eve’s poem, and Adam’s loving reply. As the lovers enter their “inmost bower . . . and eas’d the putting off these troublesome disguises which we wear,” she put the book down. _The disguises which we wear._ She thought of Snape’s cloaked body and behaviors, the many buttons, the veiled eyes. The disguises, indeed.

But her words to herself did not ring completely true. Turning her head, she saw her face in the mirror that topped her dressing table. She gazed at the reflection for a full minute.

Who am I kidding? she thought, rising up out of bed and walking to face the woman in the mirror. I’m not any better at showing my real self to people. I just use different cloaks than Severus. Calculated sultriness, cheerful fortitude, and pour me another drink when the going gets tough. I was not ready to show him myself in Cokeworth.  Severus took all the risk Sunday night. He was the one willing to let down the defences, and I . . . I  panicked. She started to cry. Backing away, she threw herself down onto the pillows.

My whole life I’ve been running from truly knowing anyone deeply, she realized with sadness, as the tears streamed. After the void of Walburga . . . after Lucius; after Azkaban. How well did my own brother even know me? I’ve fortified and re-fortified iron-clad defences . . . but what are those defences, if not another form of prison? Her mind roamed over the past few months at Hogwarts--the kaleidoscope of new experience, and the dark underbelly of damage done. Even my dreams keep me imprisoned, victimize me over and over again. So many attacks, I don’t even know where the scars end and my body and mind begin. How much of my life has been devoted to defending against the enemy?

She went back to the long, dark days and nights lying in Troyan. I recovered enough there to go through the motions of daily life, but I never acknowledged the horrors that evil is capable of, the horrors done to _me_. I never mourned for the woman whose body was violated by frozen slime, night after night, the woman who fought to stay human. . . . And yes, if I go farther back: I never mourned for that young girl who used lovers to assuage the void left in the wake of parents who did not bother to really know me or love me.

She cried until she felt emptied. Lying back against the bed, limp like a wrung-out cloth, she knew she was connecting the dots of her history in a new way. She was breaking open scarred places inside her, letting air and light come through for the first time.

 _The disguises which we wear._ Indeed. Mine was determination to make light of my own pain.

She set the Milton aside. Her gaze wandered to the crystal decanter; she gave serious thought to pouring another drink. No. It’s  just not worth the effort. It won’t help if I wake up tomorrow feeling fuzzy-headed, or worse. That first was a plenty big one, anyhow.

Using her wand, she created a steaming cup of black tea with milk. I know what else I need right now, she decided. She flicked her wand and said, “Play _Rear Window_ by Alfred Hitchcock.”

Nestling into the silky, pillowed bed as the jazzy opening filled the colourful Manhattan apartment scene, she thought ruefully, “Likely, where Tonks and I are going won’t feel like the lap of luxury I’ve grown used to here.” She glanced over to the bags and baskets of clothing, books, and household gear ready for the portkey. She and Tonks would flee in two more days; but to where? Albus was still keeping the location secret.

She had always relished Hitchcock’s elegant sense of the macabre. Now, the voyeurism of Jimmy Stewart’s wheelchair-bound hero reminded her in a strange way of herself. Crippled by occupational risks. Recuperating. Spying on the neighbors . . . Distracted by love. Well, in that last regard Jefferies behaved more like Severus. All duty to his work; the woman is a welcome diversion until she interferes with manly responsibility. Keeping the world safe from the forces of evil lurking in your own back yard, as it were. For nearly two hours, the film was an ideal escape with a comforting air of familiar themes.

 

As the closing credits rolled, she had the urge to contact Severus. Should she? It had been two days since he had told her that their relationship “interefered with work duties,” was that what he had said? Though his comments still stung, she wanted badly to send out a Legilimency thread. Just to say hi, she thought. Just . . . a friendly gesture, to let him know she was thinking of him. Just two more nights until the appointed hour of Draco’s test, and Snape’s sacrifice for his friend.

She cleared her mind, and focused on a mental image of her target.

_Severus . . . I am thinking of you tonight._

She felt it leave her and go out to him. She sensed it find its mark. Then, it was stopped. Instead of slipping into his mind like a stone sinks into water, the thread ricocheted back as if it had hit a sheet of metal. He was closed to her.

She tried once more, hoping he might change his mind and open the channel. She added: _I’m very sorry, darling, for Cokeworth. I am thinking of you, and Albus._ The same thread went out . . . and was received.

Clarissa sighed with satisfaction and waited, but no return thread came. Well, I did get in. He knows he’s not in this thing alone. She sighed again and flicked out the light.

She lay awake for some time paying attention to her breath, relishing a sense of wholeness and the marvel of a clear head. Eventually, she slept deeply.

 

That night, Severus Snape dreamed again of the lake.

_He was standing alongside Clarissa on the lakeshore, wind whipping around them. Clarissa had stripped down to a trim navy blue bathing suit, tossing a shirt and pants on the grass. Her skin was creamy white and smooth. He bent down to kiss her gently as they embraced. She looked up at him with clear, deep sapphire eyes._

_“Darling. I will see you soon.” She walked into the water and then swam. She neither looked back nor called to him. Her head occasionally bobbed above the water’s surface. When she got to the middle of the lake he thought, Surely that’s as far as she will go. But she kept going. Farther and farther, until she was a speck on the horizon._

_Dumbledore came down the trail from the castle, looking frantic._

_“Severus! Tell her to stop! Tell her she can’t go all the way to the other side by herself! It isn’t safe!”_

_Snape stared at the wild-eyed Headmaster. “But she’s already gone. I can’t stop her.”_

_Now Snape looked down at his feet. He was standing in shallow water which lapped at the black wool trousers and the edge of his cape. Bits of white paper were floating around his legs like so much flotsam. He picked up a scrap of the soggy material and it disintegrated before his eyes, but not before he could make out the phrase: Yazovichkosna veshtitsa. He looked up and saw a lengthy trail of paper and parchment coming in from far out on the water, a white streak on the black water._

 

Severus awoke in a sweat and went out to his desk, flicking on the light. From a locked drawer he removed the small leather-bound notebook of Lucius Malfoy and continued reading and rereading the cramped, spiky handwriting.

 

 


	26. Closing Credits

As Clarissa applied a swipe of lipstick in her front foyer, she looked around the comfortable, spacious lodgings she had come to love as her home.

“I’ll miss this place,” she said aloud.

Fluffing her hair, the painting behind her drew her attention in the mirror. Joshua Reynolds’s _Colonel Acland and Lord Sydney: The Archers_ , from Walburga’s collection.  The ripe colours and the profound shape of the nobles’ ready-to-loose arrows were poised together in anticipation the moment of the strike. She pondered the painting in a new way. The more popular choice of hunting weapon in the mid-18th Century was the shotgun, so this was an early Romantic homage to Greek mythology.

It occurred to her that she ought to stop by her office before she finished packing; no doubt, she ought to stash away one or more of the pistols. Maybe even the shotgun. Two women living alone--god, or in fact, only Dumbledore knows where--should have a muggle weapon or two as a backup.

Now she made her way up the stairs to the Headmaster’s suite with the sensation of heavy weights dragging her body down. She dreaded saying goodbye to the lovely man who had always been her most enthusiastic mentor; she also dreaded seeing Severus after last night’s Legilimency rejection.

She knocked and a clear but soft “Enter!” ushered her through the door and the foyer to the beautiful round room where Dumbledore, Harry, and Severus were already seated in a small semi-circle opposite several more chairs and a loveseat. Fawkes sat above Albus. The mood was not so grim as she had pictured. Harry had just been laughing at something the Headmaster said; Albus’s eyes twinkled merrily, though it looked as if he had also been crying. And he looked so tired, Clarissa’s heart went out. Even Snape was smiling, but it was clear from his drawn features and dark eye circles that he was weary.

“Ah, Clarissa, dear! Do come in. As always, you raise the level of the room with your charms.” He indicated an empty chair between Harry and Severus.

As she sat, Albus offered her a drink. She accepted the wine Severus poured. Handing it to her, he gave her a shallow nod, and made brief eye contact.

“Thank you, Severus,” she said, and sipped. It was her first drink of the day, and she intended to have just this, plus maybe a small glass with dinner.

Minerva McGonagall emerged from the hallway that led to Dumbledore’s bathroom. “Ah, Clarissa, dear! So good of you to come.” Minerva sat down on the small loveseat.

There was a loud pounding at the front door followed by a booming voice. “Albus! ’Allo, man!”

Clarissa heard several voices and multi-tonal laughter, underscored with Hagrid’s resonant bass notes.

Tonks, Lupin, Mad-Eye, and Hagrid tumbled into the room in a clump, filling the room with noise.

The dinner party was a lively good time, with the feel of a hearty celebration of Dumbledore’s rich long life. Dobby and a small fleet of house-elves served a fantastic meal. Wine flowed, enhancing conversation. Clarissa sipped her glass, grateful for the relative sobriety.

Harry and Snape talked openly and comfortably. She felt pleased at the sight of the two interacting like--well, she thought, like a father and son might. In fact, the table was rather a strange family, but the closest thing she now had to one. 

Dumbledore now raised his glass and spoke to the room from his seated position.

“Thank you for joining me for this Last Supper, as it were. You are my closest allies in the Phoenix Order.” Albus made eye contact with each of them, and Clarissa felt the force of his energy as he did so, uniting the group.  

“Minerva and I have already met to discuss official school business and how she will proceed as Interim Headmistress, starting Monday. And Mad-Eye, you are ready to take over Clarissa’s classes, correct?

Mad-Eye nodded. “Clarisser has given me brilliant instructional plans. I get to just walk in and do the fun part!”

She looked at him gratefully. “Mad-Eye is an apt historian! Of course, the kids don’t know it, but they are really in for a treat.” Clarissa felt a pang of missing the students, and her work, already. “What will the students be told about my absence, Albus?”

Dumbledore mulled the question over. He leaned over towards Minerva. “What do you think, Headmistress?”

McGonagall pursed her lips. “I don’t readily know. What will they believe has happened to you, Albus? It’s best, of course, if they don’t realize Severus has done the deed. But Ms. Black’s departure will appear . . . potentially suspicious. Particularly to the Slytherins.”

Snape offered, “I am not sure what will happen with Draco, yet, after you die. But I do not think it will be safe for him to return to Hogwarts. So students need not learn the exact . . . nature of your death.”

The Headmaster pondered this, nodding his head.

Clarissa said, “Minerva might simply announce that there was an attack. Death Eaters. Maybe the fewer details, the better.”

Minerva nodded. “But how will your own departure be explained to the students?”

Clarissa shrugged, “Why not announce that I had to go away for some school research project? Or maybe I’m visiting the Weasleys, abroad.” Arthur and Molly, along with son Bill, had gone to Romania, in an effort to maintain the loyalty of key dragon suppliers.

Minerva looked doubtful. “It might work. But there will be plenty of talk.”

Albus looked to both Tonks and Clarissa. “The two of you are ready to portkey out tomorrow night, correct?”

“But we still don’t know where--” began Clarissa.

Dumbledore put up his arm. “I know, my dear. And I will keep it that way. It’s far better that there is no risk to you of being read by Lord Voldemort to learn your whereabouts. And no need to worry about too many supplies. Not much can go through the portkey at one time, anyway. Hagrid will bring you more of the basics, and some comfort items from home, gradually. But please, for the first night, dress warmly.”

Clarissa stared at him. “We won’t know where we are even after we are there? Only Hagrid will know?”

“Severus also knows.”

She looked around at the three men who held her future in her hands, one of whom would be gone in just over twenty-four hours.

Lupin grimaced. He was sitting next to Tonks. Clarissa could imagine his hand resting on her cousin’s leg. Looking across the table at Snape, Clarissa felt a rush of sadness.

Albus now spoke with a commanding air. “Let me outline some essential information for tomorrow:

“Draco is scheduled to meet me in the Astronomy Tower at the hour of nine. Severus and Clarissa will already be secreted in the passage under the clock.” Albus leaned over towards Snape. “It would even be possible for you to issue the curse from below. Depending on what happens . . . you could possibly kill me without Draco knowing how it happened or who had done it. It might be safer--”

Snape interjected. “Regarding Clarissa’s presence, I agree, that she may go undetected. That may be for the better, surely.” Snape gave her a cool eye. “But tomorrow is a prime opportunity for Voldemort to see my loyalty to him on full display. It is better for the Order if Draco witnesses the murder.”

Considering, Albus agreed. “Yes, certainly it is so. But be open to what unfolds.”

Albus now leaned over towards Clarissa. “I have powerful feelings that your presence is required tomorrow. But how? It is yet to be revealed.”

Clarissa’s eyes were wide. “I . . . will wait until it is clear what I should do.” _They also serve who only stand and wait._ She quaked inwardly at staying hidden under the tense circumstances. With Severus. She sensed he was far from happy for her to be involved at all; tomorrow night would surely be a test of her own nerve as well as his.

Now Albus’s words shocked her. “Clarissa, you must also be willing to carry out the deed in the event that something should happen to Severus.”

She blanched, eyes wide. “What?”

“I doubt this will be necessary. But if Severus is unable to perform the task he has been assigned, you will have to be prepared. Draco must not be allowed to kill me.”

Many sets of eyes were now focused on Clarissa as she sputtered, “Of--of course.” But her mind was reeling. The thought that Severus might be in mortal danger tomorrow had not occurred to her. But it all made sense that she could be the one. She recalled the Wand prophecy and shuddered. _If I kill Dumbledore, disarming him, I would master the Elder Wand. So it is written._

She looked across the table to see Snape’s face. It was as if a white-hot fire were lit deep within him, though his features were frozen. His eyes, black, were strangely glowing, as if lit from inside. Was he angry? Terrified? It was impossible to tell what infused him.

Now Dumbledore stood and addressed his assembled guests. “As I prepare for my final night of sleep here on Earth, I want to wish you all well in pursuit of our success.  To the Order,” he said, holding his wine glass high.

“To the Order,” said everyone around the table, hoisting their glasses.

“And, a final thank you is due to my dearest friend, for allowing me to die the way I wish to. To Severus Snape.” Albus gave a little bow to him. The smouldering fire had diminished some, Clarissa thought. Severus looked sad and pale. Resigned. He gave a small bow back to the older man.

 

Minerva said a tearful goodnight to her old friend. Mad-Eye, Lupin, and Tonks took their leave next. Dumbledore was genteel and lovely to each. Clarissa watched Tonks’s eyes fill with tears as Albus kissed her hand and hugged her.

Hagrid was a blubbering mess as he was saying his final goodbyes, but Clarissa couldn’t blame him any. And Albus clearly had so much deep feeling for the half-giant; she couldn’t stand to watch. On pretense, she went to the bathroom as he and Hagrid embraced. She was distinctly glad to have a few quiet minutes away from them all.

When she came out, Hagrid was gone. Only Harry and Snape were lingering; the two were in conversation standing over a giant carved wooden chess set. She felt it was now her time to make an exit; she assumed Albus would want a private moment or two with Severus, and with Harry as well. She took Dumbledore’s right hand and kissed it. He embraced her warmly, and said, “You smell fantastic! Again! Elixir of Ettar, right?” His eyes glimmered.

“Yes, Headmaster,” she whispered.

He held both her hands tightly. “Thank you for all you are doing for me. For the Order.”

“But I haven’t done anything--yet,” she said, shaking her head.

“Ah, but there you are mistaken. You have done much. And there will be more.” His face was wet, as was hers. His good arm on hers shook all the way to the shoulder.

He patted her on the back. She hugged him close, and walked away quickly, knowing that before she got very far she would be bawling.

She almost ran full tilt into Snape in the foyer.

“I will walk you out, Miss Black. I think Harry needs a moment with Albus.”

She wiped wetness from her face, taken aback. But even under these circumstances she was hardly inclined to refuse his company.

As they made their way to the Ravenclaw side, Snape surprised her again. “I apologize if I seem . . . unwilling to work with you tomorrow,” he said. “I will do as Dumbledore asks, and I will not stand in the way of anything helpful to the Order. But I have made it clear to Albus: I am not in favour of your presence in the tower. It is very dangerous. Draco is a terrible mess, frankly, and quite volatile.”

She walked alongside him. “Yes. But danger or not, if I am to be there, I will face it. I am not afraid to do whatever is needed tomorrow night.” She thought again, adding, “And this is business, Severus. I’m not trying to make things difficult for you. I’m just following Dumbledore’s directive.”

He glanced at her with flat, black eyes. “You should probably stay out of sight. Maybe . . . there is something you need to witness by being there. Maybe it’s not action on your part that is required. Perhaps . . . it’s keeping track of the disarmings? That will be crucial information for the Order to have. And I may not be able to fully track the timing--which can be critical--if things get . . . heated. And we don’t know if Draco will have other Death Eaters with him. There may be a lot of wandfire.”

They had arrived at her door. She nodded. “You make a good point. I will try to watch carefully. But I will not be afraid to act.”

He grumbled under his breath, “Too many wands, I’m afraid . . . really no place for you . . .”

She cocked her head towards him.”What was that? What did you just say?”

Leaning back, he glared at her through narrow, shuttered eyes. “I believe . . . you heard me.”

Clarissa’s eyes flashed deep blue fire and then filled with tears as she surveyed him.  She spoke in a slow whisper. “Severus, I know you have asked for _none_ of this. You can try to attack me. And you may convince yourself that you are angry with me. But I believe . . . tomorrow night terrifies you. You’re human. Of course you are in a panic. . . . If you weren’t, I would really have to wonder . . .” Her voice trailed off and she wiped tears from her cheeks.

She stood looking directly up at him with her arms straight at her sides.

Snape stood as if paralyzed, staring down at her. His features were immobile.

She stepped back and brushed some food or lint or dirt off of the front of her blouse.

He continued to stare, statue-like.

She had nothing else to do; the crumbs were gone from her clothing. She wanted to wave her hands in exasperation, wanted to scream at him to say something, anything. She wanted him to cry out, to ask for help, to beg for any other outcome than the one prescribed for the next evening. Instead, she stopped herself. She heard the words of John Milton: _But patience to prevent that murmur, soon replies . . .Who best bear his mild yoke, they serve him best, his state is Kingly._ Stand. Wait.

Severus now reached for her right hand. A warm brown, unshuttered gaze met hers as he slowly, so slowly raised the hand to his lips. He stepped in closer to her and shut his eyes. Thick black fringe of lashes on pale skin. His mouth against her fingers all soft, delicious heat.

She knew she would melt into the floor. Such a simple gesture. More. Please . . .

She was jarred by him spinning away from her in a tall whirl of fabric, striding rapidly back in the direction of Dumbledore’s suite.

 

Back in the round room, Harry was tearful but otherwise sturdy.

“Sir, I thank you for everything you have done for me. I love being a student here. I have benefited beyond measure from being with you. And . . . I especially want you to know that I appreciate how you have included me in the plans for everything with the Order.”

Dumbledore nodded and smiled. “Harry, you are a gem. I have loved getting to know you. I wish Lily and James were here to see how wonderfully you have turned out.” He beamed at his student. “Now, listen to me. This is my final advice to you, my dear boy. Whatever comes, trust your instinct. _Listen, and trust yourself!_ It’s a sacred practice. Self-doubt  and second-guessing will kill you.”

Harry gazed at him, wide-eyed. “I will sir. I thank you.” Harry embraced the frail figure of his greatest teacher, and left him forever.

 

Severus Snape passed Harry in the corridor outside the Headmaster’s suite and gave the young man a quick nod. Harry already looked older. More confident. Resolute, he thought.

Snape and Dumbledore returned to their usual places, and sat in silence long into the night, sipping from digestif glasses.

After the clocks in the study struck midnight, Dumbledore spoke in a low, hoarse voice.

“Severus. This is my last request to you. Please, reflect on what you most fear in the coming days, as you work with Harry and Clarissa, and the rest of the Order, to defeat our common enemy. By realizing what you most fear, you will be able to do what is necessary for victory. Do not go forward to battle without this knowledge.”

Snape looked at his friend for a long time.

“Albus, I thank you for everything. For friendship, above all. With you I have learned to be . . . at least somewhat comfortable with myself. But then, every time I think I know what I am about, you push me to recognize something else. Yet . . .” He looked up at the ceiling. “Yet you always accept me. In spite of my past mistakes. In spite of my hotheadedness. In spite of my . . . my clumsiness in interpersonal relations. You have always allowed me to be myself with you, and have loved me no matter what.” His voice now became a mere whisper. “That is true friendship. I thank you,” he said, taking Dumbledore’s hands in his own. “I will miss that. And I will miss you.”

“Severus, I am grateful for your many years of comradeship. Most grateful, for the sacrifice you will make for me tomorrow.” He bowed his head onto their clasped hands. “Godspeed, man.” He raised both of Snape’s hands in his one good, strong one and kissed them.

Snape looked at him with brimming eyes.

Albus spoke his final private words to Severus Snape. “I regret terribly I will not be around to witness the kingdom I believe is waiting for you, my friend. When it comes, it will be truly splendid.”

 

 


	27. The Astronomy Tower

_Waning Gibbous_

 

The night was clear and calm, the opposite of how Clarissa and likely every other member of the Order was feeling. The moon was up, about three days past being full.

Severus had come to her at lunch with the instruction to meet him in the library at 8:30 so they could go together to hide in the Astronomy Tower. Though his face was all business, she was grateful for the communication; it would take some of the guesswork out of things.

The day had been strange. Clarissa floated through classes that felt surreal; if all went according to plan, Monday would find her hanging out _somewhere_ with cousin Tonks. Mad-Eye would be standing in her place, for god only knew how long.

Final sorting of odds and ends from her quarters occupied a half an hour, so that items she sent for would be condensed for Hagrid. A few copies of  _Womanly Witch Weekly_  made the cut. A new blank journal and pens. She rejected the large folio copy of Milton. It’s practically committed to memory anyway. . . .

Two fresh bottles of Auchentoshan malt sent last month from Rosmerta’s topped a high cabinet; on a low table, the fancy crystal decanter stood empty. But maybe she would ask Hagrid to bring along a bottle or two?

“No,” she said aloud, to no one but herself, and left the bottles where they stood.

After school she and Tonks met with Hagrid. He would take a small load of supplies through the portkey that night. “Warm things. Good. Sleeping bags, woolens. Alright, ladies. Good luck to ya’s! I’ll see you late tonight at the portkey.” He was teary again and sniffed loudly as he left them.

At 8:30 she found Snape in the library. She wore black pants, boots, and a thick black wool sweater. She would meet Tonks beyond the school grounds near the portkey . . . after . . . Dumbledore was dead. After Severus’s task was complete.

When she saw Severus, her heart went out. To any casual observer, he was the same as always. She could see, though, that his veneer of calm was a mask. His eyes darted furtively as he checked the map; he was constantly in motion, twitchy, like a thinly stretched piece of piano wire. If she touched him, she thought, he would spring straight into the ceiling.

They swiftly and silently made their way to the tower, Snape checking the Meanders Map every minute. Single file, Snape leading, wands out and held before them, they climbed the stairs up and up and up, under the clockworks. Now and again Clarissa heard mice scurrying ahead of them; a stray bat was startled and flew up near her face, but she didn’t flinch. The massive mechanism that formed the core of the tower ticked and tocked loudly. The movement of the giant cogs made loud half second by half second clicking sounds and shook the floorboards all around them.

Snape extended the map along his arm so she could see the names Nathan Easterly and Draco Malfoy entering the road along the lake leading to the castle. She nodded up at him. Good. Only two coming. He looked relieved, his face damp with a sheen of sweat.

He turned to her when they were at the level under the top floor and held up a hand for her to stay. He went a little further ahead and stood just under the final staircase. He hesitated, then he walked up these steps, moving heavily.

From her position in the shadows she could look up and out the round cut-out in the floor to the starry sky beyond the huge clock face opening. The space where she stood was growing chilly with night air. Snape’s tall figure emerged from the staircase opening. He stepped to the side of the clock face and into the shadows where she could no longer see him.

She sucked in her breath as Dumbledore wandered into her field of vision above. His back was to her; he walked past Snape’s hiding place into the clock where he stood gazing out at the night, hands clasped together behind him.  She moved farther into the shadows, knowing it would not be long now till Easterly and Draco appeared.

The creaky ticking of the massive clock gave her something to concentrate upon. Time, counting down. She wondered if Dumbledore were listening to it and thinking of the tick, tock of his time running out. But that’s silly, she thought. Time is running out for all of us, not just Albus. Always. Why do we forget this?

She waited. In her head recited the sonnet she loved. _When I consider how my light is spent, ere half my days in this dark world and wide . . . His state is kingly: thousands . . . post o’er land and ocean without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait._

The clock chimed the three-quarter hour mark.

After what seemed many minutes, there were footfalls on the stairs below. And soft voices. She recognized the smooth, silky tones of Nathan Easterly and the the jerking, nervous, sarcastic drawl of Draco Malfoy.

The glowing white head of the boy emerged through the staircase opening at Clarissa’s left.  Next came the slim figure of Nathan Easterly.

She watched as the two climbed onto the final set of stairs up to the level where Dumbledore and Snape waited. Halfway up the steps, Easterly paused, as is sniffing the air. He turned, gazing over to where she stood.

Shit, shit, shit! she thought. He is smelling . . . me? My perfume? She had deliberately skipped her typical spritz of scent that day.  But he’s an animal. A snake. His sense of smell, she thought, is very keen. . . . And no doubt my clothes carry traces. She grasped her wand more tightly and readied herself.

Easterly was still staring in her direction. Draco, above him, hissed down, “Come on, man!”

Slowly, Easterly turned his gaze and climbed up the last few rungs of the narrow, open stairs. Clarissa breathed out slowly.

“Professor Dumbledore. I see you received the message to meet me here tonight!” Draco’s jaunty voice was unnaturally high and loud.

Clarissa could see the trio through the floor cut-out.

“Yes, Draco,” said Dumbledore softly, calmly. “What brings us together? Oh, and good evening, Mr. Easterly. It has been a while.”

Easterly grinned and made a low bow to the Headmaster. “Albus. Always a pleasure to see you. I regret that I will be unable to stay for drinks after tonight’s . . . little meeting.”

Draco smirked, but his face was tense and his features looked almost painted on. “Draco, you don’t seem like yourself. Why are you here? Talk to me about it.”

Draco snapped at him; Clarissa tensed, ready to move. “Enough, old man. This will be your last hour! _Expelliarmus!”_ The Elder Wand flew from Dumbledore’s right hand, out the open window past the clock face. Quick as lightning, Nathan Easterly was a giant snake leaping from the window, catching the Wand in his mouth as it descended. Then he and the Wand disappeared from Clarissa’s view.

Dumbledore gazed out and down and then spoke softly to Draco, who was standing next to him, tensed, wand raised. The young man’s arm shook; his ragged face was soaked with tears.

“Draco Malfoy. _You_ are no assassin.” Albus’s voice was so calming as to be hypnotic. “Years ago, I knew a brilliant boy named Tom Riddle. You know him as Lord Voldemort. He made all the wrong choices, Draco. You do not have to repeat his mistakes.”

Clarissa could barely see the trembling tip of Draco’s wand from where she stood.

She knew there was not much time left. Instinct told her to get up to where she could see what was happening, and fast. She hurried to the staircase and climbed up, swiftly and silently as a cat. Draco’s back was to her.

Dumbledore, his back to the open window, nodded as she emerged out of the stairs, just as Snape stepped from the shadows, wand pointed at the boy. Clarissa backed into the shadowy space behind her.

Severus spoke slowly. “Draco. Put down your wand.”

“Snape! Christ! Dad said you would try to interfere! Get _out!_ Get the fuck out!”

Draco’s voice was cracking on every syllable.

Clarissa saw Dumbledore mouth, “Now.”

Snape turned to face Dumbledore, arm extended. _“Avada kedavra!”_ The voice was jagged glass. The green flash of the killing curse illuminated the room. The arc of light struck Albus squarely in the chest. For one whole, long second of silence he stared back at the three of them, a strange smile on his face. Then his body was flung out of the window, horribly, like a rag doll. What seemed many seconds later, Clarissa heard the dull, reverberating thud of Albus Dumbledore hitting the ground.

Draco shrieked a high-pitched, terrible shriek, his wand in Snape’s face. “What have you done? What have you _done?_ Fucking _hell._ He was mine! . . . To bloody hell with you! _Avada k--”_

 _“Expelliarmus!”_ bellowed Clarissa from the shadows, her wand already pointing directly at Draco Malfoy’s hand. His wand flew through the air and landed behind him with a short series of percussive clicks.

Draco stared at her arm, as Clarissa stepped around him to retrieve his wand.

Snape gazed at her in wonder as he took the boy by the hand. “Draco, come with me! We fly!”

Snape dragged Draco to the edge of the clock face opening and leaped into the air, his body a bat-like blur of inky wings. Draco Malfoy was reduced to a streak of blond hair and a high-pitched wail as Snape flew with him in the direction of Malfoy manor.

Clarissa ran down the stairs, leaping half a staircase at a time.

 

A small group of mourners outside the tower had clustered around Dumbledore: Hagrid, Minerva, and Harry. Clarissa could bear neither to look nor listen. She ran on.

 

 


	28. Flight

Clarissa reached the crest of the hill and looked back at the castle. A larger crowd of students and staff had gathered around the Headmaster’s body. Tiny dots of flickering candlelight punctuated the space around him. She could also see a huge, gathering mass of cloud roiling over the castle, in a sky that had been clear minutes ago.

“The Dark Mark!” she exclaimed as the horrific face glowed above.

“Clarissa!” Tonks emerged from behind a grove of trees, Lupin behind her.

“Great Giles! It happened so fast!” Lupin exclaimed.

She pointed. Both were startled to see the enormous cloud over Hogwarts. Clarissa tried to catch her breath and calm her emotions held at bay in the Tower. Now she felt as if her heart would explode.

The dark smudge in the sky began to dissipate. A plaintive, sweet song came from the castle, slowly filling the air as a pitcher is filled with water. The outline of Fawkes the Phoenix crossed the sky before them, then floated north. Watching the arc of his flight and hearing the tragically beautiful melody, she was filled with both sadness and calm. Then Fawkes was gone.  

Tonks clutched her arm. “Are you okay? Did it go--as planned?”

Clarissa felt her back and shoulders start to quaver violently. She spoke breathlessly. “Walk with me. We need to get away.” Lupin and Tonks nodded, moving with her. The three reached the forest as she told them everything she had witnessed. Easterly, the Wand, Draco turning on Snape. Her own disarming of Draco.

Lupin gave a low whistle. “Bloody hell, Clarissa. Draco must be wondering just whose side you are on.”

She nodded. “I know. Snape took him away.” She was still breathing heavily.

Tonks gave her cousin several slaps on the back. “Good show. You . . . you saved Severus’s life.”

Clarissa was thinking about the moment Snape issued the curse that killed Dumbledore. “He did it. He really did it. It was horrible. But he didn’t hesitate for a second. . . . You know,” she said, turning to the couple beside her, “There was something almost beautiful about it.” She felt the hot rush of tears spilling as she broke down. Tonks stopped, took her by the shoulders, and held her. Clarissa gave herself over to the flood that felt like the merest start at melting the iceberg lodged in her chest.

Lupin spoke quietly. “Clarissa . . . you disarmed Draco. After he disarmed Dumbledore. Do you know what that means?”

She recalled Snape had told her to track the disarmings, but she didn’t know what Lupin was getting at. “No, I don’t know what it means.”

“When Draco was disarmed, he was the Elder Wand master. But then, you disarmed _him.”_

“So? I disarmed him, and I got his wand. ” She held up the thin piece of wood. “The Elder Wand was already with Easterly by then.”

Lupin stopped, and the women did the same. “Clarissa. Wands don’t work so logically as we might expect. You rule this wand of Draco’s, yes,” Lupin fingered the stick in Clarissa’s hand. “But disarming him means you also now rule the Elder Wand.”

Clarissa knit her brow as she puzzled over this information. She shrugged. “Fat lot of good it does us. We don’t even have the thing! It’s probably in Voldemort’s hands by now.”

Lupin said slowly. “Easterly saw Draco do it, then he left. So Voldemort has no idea of the truth of the Wand’s allegiance. He thinks . . . it belongs to Draco.”

Clarissa thought grimly: Too bad for Draco.

They were quiet for a while as they trudged towards the portkey. Joining the road, they continued in silence until they were in sight of the pub. They could see Hagrid pacing. Lupin stopped.

“This is where . . . I am to leave you.”

Tonks nodded, and bit her lower lip. She grabbed Remus’s hand.

Clarissa said, “I’ll go ahead. You two. . . . have a moment.” As she walked towards the half-giant, she wondered where Snape was and what he was thinking. Then it struck her. Snape might not have had time to process the implications of the disarmings in the Tower. If Snape were to bring the boy into contact with Lord Voldemort . . . She shuddered. Voldemort would not hesitate to sacrifice Draco if he thought it would mean the Wand’s mastery. Great Giles and Martha, she thought. That may have been Voldemort’s plan all along. . . . She cleared her mind and created the Legilimency thread.

 _Severus . . . Draco is at great risk. Voldemort believes that Draco is the Wand Master. Easterly saw the first disarming. Just that one._ She felt the thread leave her and . . . silkily, it found its target and entered Snape’s mind, as if pulled. She sat very still to see if there would be a reply.

The response was quick. _Very good to know. Draco owes you a great deal. As do I. I will see you tonight. Be careful._

“’Allo, Hagrid,” Clarissa said heavily. The burly man grabbed her and hugged her hard.

He spoke while she was still breathing in the wet-dog dragon-dropping smell of his cloak. “Clarisser. How are ya farin’?”

“Hagrid. I’m okay,” she nodded.

“It’s done, innit? Snape . . .”

She could only nod, grasping his humongous hand while Hagrid wept.

In a few moments Tonks and Remus  joined them, wet-faced. Tonks nodded, stepping up with a sad look back at Lupin. The three placed their arms on the portkey, and they were through.

 

“Lucius. Narcissa. Listen to me carefully. You are not safe. There is grave risk to you all.”

Lucius Malfoy stood in his spacious, white leather and chrome study, cocktail glass in hand. Shifting his weight uncomfortably and checking his pocket watch, he briefly made eye contact with Snape, then looked away from the penetrating gaze. Draco was slumped back in a white leather armchair near his father, looking like he was about to be sick. One of his hands hung down over the side of the chair; the other was draped listlessly across his forehead. Narcissa perched on the plush upholstered arm, leaning over the boy.

“And now, Voldemort has possession of the Elder Wand. But Draco masters it. You need to take your son and wife and go. It is no longer safe for any of you to have contact with the Dark Lord.”

Narcissa, nearly as tall as Lucius, stood up and looked squarely at her husband. Her streaked hair and huge brown eyes made her look like a frightened animal. She grabbed onto his arm.

“Lucius, we should do what he says! Why are we waiting?”

Now Snape leaned in close to the tall, cloaked figure of Malfoy. “This is your time, Malfoy. It’s time for you to be a man, and take care of your family. If you love them, take them and leave. Your life here is over. But you may still live!”

Lucius fumed and set his glass down on the the mantel above the roaring fire. Narcissa pulled on her husband’s sleeve.

Snape edged closer to Malfoy. “Let it go, Lucius. Abandon this idea you have that you are ‘the shadowy Keeper of Secrets, the wizard most _trusted_ by the Dark Lord.’ You think it’s about you.”

Lucius stared back at him, hatred filling his narrowed eyes.

“It’s a fantasy, Lucius. You have been fooling yourself. And you’ve been taking it out on your wife’s family. Now you need to do the only reasonable thing left to you: leave it all and get out while you still can.”

“Really, Snape. I will consider what you have said. But at the moment, we are all late for a meeting which is starting upstairs!” He tossed back his long platinum hair.

“If you take Draco to that meeting, he is as good as dead,” said Severus, flatly. “I did not make the Unbreakable Vow to protect his life, only to allow you to throw it away!”

Narcissa whimpered, “Please, Lucius! Listen to him!”

Draco came to life, jumping up from the chair. “Don’t listen, Dad! He’s trying to trick us! Clarissa saved him, up in the Tower! She’s with him--so he’s not with us, Dad, I know it!” Draco’s eyes were glazed and he looked feverish. His mother shushed him and tried to get him to drink a glass of water, which he knocked roughly aside. The contents spilled over the white fur rug.

Snape turned to Draco and spoke calmly, placing a paternal hand on his shoulder. “You are not well, young man.” There was grave concern on Snape’s face as he shook his head and turned back to the father. “Really, the boy has had a terrible shock. His words make no sense. Clarissa Black? She wasn’t even there tonight.”

“Dad! I know what I saw! He’s--he’s trying to double-cross you! He probably wants the Wand for himself--or for that slut. They’re working together!”

Snape shook his head, sadly. “This is . . . most unfortunate, Draco.”

Narcissa put her hand on Draco’s head, and exclaimed, “Lucius, he’s burning up!”

Lucius cooly assessed Snape with penetrating eyes, his head back. “I think I see what is happening here, Severus Snape.”

Snape had one last piece of artillery to fire at Lucius. “As you overheard here recently, I made a vow with your wife to keep Draco safe until he comes of age. He is only safe if you flee. I am ordering you: Take him away from here. Immediately. Go, or else I will take him myself. And then you may never see your son again.”

 

Snape strode upstairs and into the dimly lit meeting room where the Death Eaters were assembled. He found his seat across from Voldemort. Bellatrix sat in her usual place next to her master, looking bored. Her full lips formed a pout as she twirled a lock of hair in her fingers.

“Severus. How nice to see you!” came the husky, low whisper of the Dark Lord. “I was afraid . . . you had lost your way. Apparently our hosts are having difficulty reaching us. In their own home.” He indicated the empty seats normally assigned to the Malfoy clan. “And I hope they do not tarry long. I need to conclude some urgent business of my own with the boy.” Voldemort fingered the Elder Wand as he spoke. His digits were greenish gray and long; papery skin gave way at their tips to thick, waxy-looking nails.

Bellatrix whined, “Cissy never misses a meeting. Where is she?” But then she became interested in picking something out from under her own long, black-lacquered claw.

Snape spoke as he settled himself in the tall-backed chair. “My Lord, Draco and I just returned from Hogwarts School. The family should be along shortly. The boy . . . was somewhat . . . unwell after the flight. But I have a good report for you.” Snape paused as his flat black eyes were drawn to an object suspended in the shadows above the far end of the table. Dangling upside down as if from a rope was Charity Burbage. He stared at her strained face and terrified eyes. This month’s ritual victim. His heart sank. Before the night was out, Snape knew, she would be fed to Nagini.

Voldemort was looking hard at Snape. “Oh, Severus, do not let Miss Burbage distract you. You do know her, I suppose?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“What did she teach, if you do not mind regaling the company with this entertaining tidbit?”

Igor Karkaroff was likewise staring hard at Snape.

Something under the table was sliding over the top of Snape’s shoes. Nagini, he realized, was slithering along the floor. Suddenly everything inside his intestinal cavity felt like it was in motion. Snape breathed slowly and deliberately in an effort to appear calm.

“She teaches Muggle Studies, my Lord.”

Voldemort laughed, and the table quickly joined in.

“My Lord, if I may continue--”

“Severus! Severus! Please, help . . .” The voice came from overhead, a mere croak.

He stared up at her, coolly. Charity’s face was upside-down and her neck strained horribly with the effort of trying to call to him.

“As I was trying to tell--”

“Severus! For god’s sake. Clarissa, you and I . . . we’re friends! Please, help me!”

Snape turned to Voldemort. “My Lord, I would like very much to continue the report.”

“Miss Burbage, really, do you mind?” said Voldemort with bored disdain. Nagini slithered by Snape’s feet again then came up the chair where his master sat. Voldemort held the animal’s face near his own, hissed several syllables, and snapped his fingers. Nagini slid down the length of the table. Then, fangs exposed, he raised his head high and struck the captive woman in the neck with a _thwack._ Charity, still suspended, made several hoarse choking noises and then was quiet. A line of blood drained down onto the table and pooled there. The Death Eaters seated near the spot did not seem to notice as Nagini licked at the puddle.

“Very good, Nagini. Now, Severus, please continue.”

Snape was quiet for several seconds while the assembly waited. The giant snake occupied the middle of the table. Snape went on. “I am happy to report: Albus Dumbledore lives no more.”

“Severus! That is excellent news! And tell us, did Draco pass the test?”

Snape looked down. “He did well, my Lord, but Dumbledore fought hard. It took both of us to accomplish the deed. Together.”

Voldemort smiled a thin smile of grey-stained teeth and raised the Elder Wand. He stroked his face with it gently and lovingly and rubbed it along his hollow cheek. His eyes rolled back rapturously as he did so.

He spoke with his eyes closed. “I am deeply grateful to you, Severus.” Now he sat up straight and opened his eyes. “It would be better if Lucius were here for our ensuing agenda item. But someone will just have to fill him in. Next order of business: Getting to Harry Potter. And the file.”

Bellatrix perked up at this. “Oh, V.! I do wish you would let me be the one to kill the boy! You know I hate him so!” She draped her arm on her master’s. “And you know how I _enjoy_ a young one. It’s been so _long . . ._ ”

“Quiet, Bella. It is impossible. I must do the deed.”

Snape interjected, “Lord, the file may soon be . . . with the boy.”

“What is that you say?”

“I believe the file will soon belong to Harry Potter. I learned early tonight that months before his death, Albus Dumbledore willed possession of the Elder Wand dossier to Harry Potter.”

“ _Albus Dumbledore_ possessed the file? And the Wand? But then--but then--”

“He was immortal, yes. But he was no longer immortal the moment Draco disarmed him. He is, I mean he was, you know, the greatest wizard of our time. But he was not perfect.”

Voldemort looked troubled. “Dumbledore possessed the file. . . . Did you learn how he got it?”

“Yes. It came to him through a girl. A girl who worked at Hogwarts some years ago, after she left the Ministry. A librarian named Madeline Creech.”

Voldemort now appeared delighted. “Harry Potter! Possessor of the Elder Wand file! This makes life just a bit simpler, now, does it not?”

“But my Lord, he does not yet in fact possess it. I will keep a close eye on the situation and inform you when--”

“Yes, Severus. Excellent. I believe very soon I will penetrate Harry Potter’s mind to get some information. And to--er, consult with him about how I might arrange . . . an exchange of sorts.”

 

Snape sent a thread to Clarissa as he flew from Malfoy Manor. _En route to see you. Please help me pinpoint your location._

 _You mean the location I don’t know?_   She laughed.

_Just keep threading me. I know approximately where you are. . . ._

Clarissa and Tonks found themselves in a tiny seaside cottage near the edge of a cliff, tucked in behind an outcropping of rock. Outside, the sky was an inky backdrop for the moon and a billion stars. They had just finished making up rudimentary beds. Already it seemed so long since the events in the Astronomy Tower, though it had been only a few hours ago.

Clarissa felt Severus’s thread pressing in on her. _Keep threading. . . ._

 _No worries. You’re . . .  I feel you approaching us rapidly._  

_Keep sending me your thread as a signal._

_Right. So . . . Tonks and I have begun to set up shop. It’s not up to Hogwarts standards, but it’s cozy. . . . Do come up and see us sometime._

She walked outside the cottage using her lit wand to show the way, and there stood Severus atop the cliff face, his long cape billowing in the wind. She ran to him and he held her tightly. Firmly, wonderfully. She breathed in the fabulous spicy smell of him and looked up into his face. She buried her chin in his chest and closed her eyes.

He held her, his face buried in her hair. They did not move for what seemed a very long time.

She pulled back from him just a little to whisper, “Let me tell Tonks you are here, and we can go walking.”

He shook his head. “First I need to tell you both about the meeting.”

 

Inside the cottage Tonks was lying on her cot under thick blankets.  

Snape’s voice was soft but crisp. “I’m so sorry to have to tell you both . . . Charity Burbage . . . was killed tonight. She was the ritual sacrifice victim at the meeting at Malfoy Manor.”

Clarissa’s hand flew to her mouth. Tonks sucked in her breath and then exclaimed, “Oh, god, no!”

Clarissa felt the room turning all around her. She sat down on the cot where Tonks lay and took her cousin’s hand.

Tonks sat upright and clutched her cousin. “Damn,” was all Tonks managed, staring at the ceiling.

Severus said grimly, “It was truly . . . horrible. I . . . have no words. Other than, I’m so sorry.”

Clarissa shut her eyes and said, “Shit. This has been one hell of a night.”

 

She and Snape walked out  into the cold night air. Clarissa wore a long wool cape that Hagrid had carried through the portkey. They walked slowly away from the seaside towards a grove of ancient, scrubby cedars. And walked. She put her hand in his; he kissed it and then held it as they walked on and on.

In spite of the chill, Clarissa’s mind, and then her body were flooded with warmth. We could walk forever, she thought. We could just keep going and never look back. Being with this man is all I want in the world.

She sent a thread. _Severus._

_Yes._

_Thank you for coming tonight._

_Thank you for saving me tonight._

He stopped and drew her against him for a long kiss. They stood in the shelter of each other for an eternity. Around them, the world was still, too. The cedars were dark green and softened the darkness of the night, cloaking them securely.

They went on and on into the night.

Arriving in the midst of the grove, she turned to face him with another long kiss. He stroked the back of her head, then buried his hands in the thick curls and pulled her face up to his. She leaned back to look at him and brought his hand to her mouth. He wheeled her into the cape and held her tightly, lowering her to the ground. Inside the cape, their world was all warmth and feathery green darkness.

 

They walked until the grove opened up again. A bare rock overlook offered a view out over the moonlit ocean.

 

They walked back to the cottage hand in hand. The moon dropped out of sight just as they reached the door.

She turned to him.  She kissed him long and hard, and stroked the hair away from his face.

He did the same to her. Then he slowly raised her hand to his mouth and held it there for a long time before he turned away, and flew.

 

 


	29. Occlumency and Antivenoms

“Harry, welcome to Basic Defence Class.” Clarissa faced him squarely.

Snape had brought Harry early, and left soon after to get back to his own classes. More than ever it would be important for Snape’s routine to stay normal; Voldemort might otherwise wonder. Snape had informed Harry at breakfast that he would be released from attending school for a while; Clarissa’s free time “at an undisclosed location” would be best utilized for Harry’s Occlumency training.

Harry had blinked in surprise. “I won’t know where you are flying me?”

“Not even Miss Black nor Nymphadora know where they are. If Voldemort tries to read any of you--and we know he will certainly try to read _you_ \--it is essential that you remain ignorant.”

The morning passed quickly. By the time Snape returned to escort Harry back, Clarissa had managed to show Harry what mental penetration felt like--a vital first step in learning to defend against various levels of assaults.

She said to Snape, with clear appreciation, “Harry’s amazing. A natural. Making strides. Next time, he should practise reading you, and blocking you. It always feels a bit different with another person.”

The pride on Harry’s face gave way to wariness at the thought of entering Snape’s mind.

Snape handed her a bulky, wrapped parcel. “Hagrid . . . has been to your brother’s cave. We thought it best to clear his belongings, as Death Eaters are on the prowl. I thought . . . you would would want to have these.”

She took the package from him and said, “Thank you, Severus.”

 

Tonks busied herself with readings for her Auror studies for most of the rest of daylight hours while Clarissa unwrapped Sirius’s things. She found a few books and a small utility knife. Few wizards would ever have use for a paring knife. She smiled, recognizing that she had shared with her brother the desire to do certain tasks the hard way.

One book was a worn paperback copy of the _I Ching_ ; there was also a copy of Shelley’s _Frankenstein_.

A third, leather-bound volume had nothing written on the spine. She saw immediately that it was a diary. The inside cover read, “The Writings of Sirius Black, Winter 1997 to--.” Sirius had started the journal when they fled Azkaban. She flipped through, seeing that the notebook was about half filled with her brother’s tall, spiky hand.

The first entry was dated 17 December, 1997. Right after they had escaped; nearly a year ago. She started reading.

 

_I have not written a word in twelve years! How fantastic it feels and yet how strange, to hold this amazing instrument known as a pen in my hand!_

 

Clarissa smiled. That sounded just like Sirius. Exuberant to the point of being corny.

 

_Clarissa and I got out. We coordinated our locations inside the prison. She had the idea that I could escape in my animagus form. Bloody brilliant, that. The dementors can’t smell animals. Of course, turning into Padfoot wasn’t easy, under the circumstances. So draining. But I managed it. Clarissa formed the full Thestral Patronus she had been working on. We swam forever, it seemed, until we got to England and found the nearest tiny burg. . . ._

 

Memories of that heady night came flooding back to her. How strangely long ago it all seemed now. The next entry was January 7, 1998.

 

_Tonks lit into me for allowing Clarissa to come so close to the edge. She has taken her to Bulgaria of all the bloody places. Says she needs the rest and it’s a place she can totally relax. I think it’s nutters. Clarissa just needs some good food, fresh air, training runs in the park. She can recover just as well at 12 Grimmauld as anywhere. But when those women get an idea in their heads I know I’m trumped._

 

Clarissa looked over to where her cousin sat reading. I don’t even remember Tonks taking me there. I just woke up one day in Troyan and could begin to make sense of things. She returned to the diary. There were plenty of short entries with her brother’s day to day events, lists of things to do, and observations of the weather. The next long entry was February 12.

 

_I guess there was something to what Tonks told me about Rissa after all. She really did just about lose it there at the end. I got a message from Troyan that Clarissa has just started talking again. Holy hell. I really miss her, and I will want to kill myself if she’s . . . if she’s not able to come back from this. I can’t even think about it._

 

Clarissa felt the pang of grief for her brother who had been through so much with her. Flipping ahead through more short, informational lists, and random notes,  she saw an August, 1998 entry.

 

_Clarissa was hired to teach Advanced History of Magic at Hogwarts. She will love it there. Spoke to her today. She was like a kid again, so excited. I’m happy for her, and more than a little jealous. It seems things always just kind of fall into place for Rissa. . . . I hope she can figure out what the bloody hell is really going on with Snivellus. Dumbledore believes he is loyal; I think even the Great Wizard  is capable of being fooled._

 

The idea of Sirius being envious of her gave her pause. She next saw several ensuing entries about Harry, his emerging maturity; Sirius made mention of how torn he felt, wanting to spend more time with the boy yet not wanting to interfere with the education and guidance being provided by Albus. Further in, she saw an entry dated ‘September the last’:

 

_Clarissa acts almost smitten with Snape. Weird times, these, my friends --VERY weird times. Hope she’s knows what she’s doing. I have to think he has his own reasons for getting close to her. She has awfully strange taste in men, sometimes._

 

Clarissa felt her cheeks getting hot. Sirius’s attitudes were so bloody annoying. But really, why? Maybe she was most bothered by the fact that Sirius was spot on: Snape did have ulterior motives for befriending her, initially. She sighed. Thinking of Severus now, none of her brother’s concerns mattered. And Sirius was gone. She would love to have him around so they could discuss what she loved about Snape. She would set him straight. And give him some love advice of his own. There were several great, interesting women, in the years before prison, that her older sibling had rejected for one reason or other, after a period of dating. He was always so picky. So hard on people, himself included. Herself included. She reflected on the fact that he had been a serial monogamist, as if he were trying to recreate a strong mother-woman in his life; she had been more about perpetual one-night stands, unwilling to get close to anyone. Unwilling to get close . . . until now, she thought. She closed the book and slid it under her pillow.

 

The next time Harry came to the cottage, he was glum.

“I . . . I read Snape. He gave me a session yesterday.”

She looked at him quizzically. “And?”

“I saw a memory of my mother. As a young girl. And . . . I asked him about it, and he got furious. He said I wasn’t allowed into all of his thoughts! But how was I supposed to know that? When you’re reading someone, it’s not like you come across a door that says ‘private.’” He looked at her, exasperated, eyes flashing hotly.

Clarissa bit her lip. “Oh, ouch, Harry. I’m sorry. That sounds very uncomfortable.” For both of you, she thought.

Harry erupted. “I can’t work with him! He hates me, still.”

“No, Harry,” she interrupted. “You know he does not hate you, and never has. Far from it. Remember what I’ve said in class over and over? About the danger of assigning any event, place or--any person--a single story?”

Harry nodded. “I know. I get it, Clarissa. But he’s so irrational, for someone who prides himself on his scientific intellect. I wasn’t even trying to pry!”

“He’s hurting, Harry. And hurting people lash out. He’s . . . unused to being open.” She closed the book in her hand. “Let’s have our session, okay? You’re making terrific progress.”

Harry nodded, looking bruised.

 

The small, private formal memorial service and burial for Dumbledore would be held on November fourteenth. Minister Fudge sent word that he very much wanted to attend, but he feared that his presence would pose a security risk.

The night before the service, Snape paid a visit to the cottage. Over tea, he expounded upon the Minister’s decision.

“Of course, he is being practical. There is certainly danger that Voldemort would attack at such a moment. But not much chance. Voldemort has the Wand; he has a plan for obtaining the file. He is biding his time. Fudge is a coward. He would prefer not to face the Hogwarts students and staff after how he has denied all along that Voldemort is back.”

Clarissa agreed. And sighed. “So why can’t Tonks and I be there?”

“Impossible.” Severus’s face was soft and open. “Because I care about you infinitely more than I care about Cornelius Fudge. And you, too, Nymphadora.”

Clarissa smiled as he hugged her. Tonks laughed; Snape always used her first name, which she hated. But in Snape’s voice, it fit.

The next day, during the service, Clarissa stood as if at attention looking out over the choppy seas. Snape sent Clarissa a few threads which allowed her to picture the somber remembrance.

Later that night, Tonks and Clarissa joined the special group which made its way by portkey to London, 12 Grimmauld Place. Harry, Hermione, Ron, Neville, Luna, Ginny, Hagrid, Mad-Eye, Minerva, Remus, Shacklebolt, and Snape joined the exiled women at the magically-protected homestead.

Harry announced, “Thank you all for coming! You are here as special guests: the self-appointed ‘Dumbledore’s Army.’ We begin with a toast to the man himself, Albus Percival Wilfred Brian Dumbledore!”

“Here, here,” chorused the motley group around the long table.

“We are training, and honing our skills for the final showdown with Lord Voldemort. And those sessions will intensify in frequency.” Harry pointed to a small chalkboard grid with the hours each week when the students could make time to meet.

Clarissa loved seeing the look of relative relaxation on Snape’s face as Harry led the meeting.

“Now,” Harry said. “Here is how I see it.” He glanced at Snape. “Severus and I have consulted about the timeline for the showdown. We need weeks, if not months. I need to keep training as an Occlumens, and our army must train. We propose December 21, which is in five weeks. Noon hour. I understand the moon will be favourable on that date, Clarissa?”

She nodded, consulting her mental map of the moon phases. “Right. New crescent. Very little interference with the wands. It is also the Solstice.” She thought, If we live to see another day it will be a longer, lighter one.

Hagrid looked puzzled. “Noon? It will be daylight. Does the moon make a difference for a daytime battle?”

Hermione started to answer but Luna’s breathy, high-pitched voice got in more quickly. “During daytime the moon still exerts its force on the earth. Like it does with tides. Wands are very sensitive to these forces, of course.”

Hermione nodded in agreement, impressed.

Hagrid said, “Right.”

“But why so many weeks from now?” posed Neville. “Won’t Voldemort be getting antsy to have the file?” As he said it he was rubbing his hands, as if eager to move the action along.

Harry looked at Snape, and waited for him to answer.

“We need ample time to prepare, certainly. And . . . when I asked Voldemort to name his preference for when to meet with Harry, he named the twenty-first. He believes . . . the darkest day of the year is favourable to his cause.” Snape grimaced.

Voldemort’s assessment of the date struck Clarissa as ironic. She thought, And here I love the Solstice because it’s the turn towards the light. And it’s the day before my birthday.

“Okay, said Harry. “We’re good on the timing. The place will be Godric’s Hollow. Snape has already informed Voldemort that I have received the Elder Wand file.”

“But you don’t really have that thing, right?” asked Ron, looking worried.

“Right. He just thinks I have it. Don’t worry about that part. Now, I think it will be best if most of you station yourselves around the town. We’ll go there a few days beforehand, so you can choose the best vantage points.” He pulled out a map of the small burg where his parents lived when he was a baby, and tapped out locations with his wand as a pointer.

Their planning went into the night.

 

At the end of the meeting, Clarissa ran up to her old bedroom to fill a messenger satchel with books and papers.

“What do you want with all that?” Snape asked. “You’ll need to take care to secure it through the portkey.”

She nodded, closing the bag’s flap.

 

_33 Days Before Solstice_

 

She and Tonks lay reading in their beds (now, with mattress and down comforter spells) until very late. Each witch had her wand tucked into the back pages, alight with the lumos command. The Beatles’ “Here, There, and Everywhere” breathily filled the room.

_“Changing my life with a wave of her hand. Nobody can deny that there’s something there. . . .”_

Clarissa suddenly addressed her cousin in a dreamy voice. “What is it you love about Remus?”

Setting her book aside, Tonks grasped her wand for light, and looked over at Clarissa lying with one arm behind her head, gazing up at the ceiling. The beds hugged opposite walls with open space between them.

“I don’t know, exactly. Who thinks about that stuff? I love . . . everything about him!”

Clarissa nodded. “I know what you mean.”

Tonks propped herself up on her elbow so she could look over to her cousin. “Why do you want to know what I find attractive in Remus?”

Clarissa turned to her. “Dumbledore. Albus told me before his death that I needed to think about what I love about Severus, and that I must tell him. He acted like it was . . . mightily important in the grand scheme of things. You know how Dumbledore talked. All so wonderfully grave and dramatic.” Clarissa sighed. “I really miss him.”

Tonks smiled. “Yeah. I do, too.” Suddenly energized on the subject of Remus Lupin, she sat up on her bed, cross-legged. Her eyes were alight as she talked and her hands waved in front of her. “I think what I really love about him . . . is that he is so eager to find the best in everyone. Starting with me, of course! He is so generous. Always looking at things, especially people, in the best possible light. Whereas I feel like I’m often _trying_ to find fault.” She scrunched up her nose. “And then of course there is also his great wit. He can always make me laugh.”

Clarissa nodded back, encouraging, as Ringo Starr’s off-pitch crooning of “Yellow Submarine” filled the cottage with goofy good cheer.

“Y’know, I can have had the worst day--a day straight from Hell at the Auror’s Office--and I can come home, see him, and within five minutes--poof! It’s like the bad day is all . . . _perspectivized._ Wait. That’s not even close to an actual word, is it?”

Clarissa was laughing hard. “I like it. And I know what you mean about Remus.”

“And you know . . . when a man finds you attractive, and really _gets_ you--like, sees you for who you are, flaws and all, and digs it _all,_ not just the physical parts--well, there’s nothing _hotter_ than that.” Tonks looked quite satisfied with her pronouncement.

Clarissa slowly nodded her head.

“So what is it you love about our Snape? I’m guessing it’s . . . not his prodigious sense of humor!”

Clarissa smiled and said, “I rather think not. Though noticing he had any humor at all was a revelation.” She reflected on the first time she recognized Snape was warm-blooded, at the Three Broomsticks. “You know, it’s so hard to put into words.” She twirled a curl around a finger. Picturing him dancing the waltz while the childish lyric about life aboard a yellow underwater craft droned on made the vision faintly comical. Next, she saw him holding her hand to his mouth. He was a regal, magnificent man capable of great control as well as vulnerability.

She said slowly, “I think he shows me parts of himself others don’t get to see. And I bring out a side of him that no one else can, other than Albus. He relaxes with me.”

“And just what _has_ he _shown_ you, darling?” she asked, with a gleam in her eye. “You have been holding out!”

Clarissa grinned back. “Oh, no--not everything, yet--unless you are talking Legilimency!” She threw a pillow at her cousin, which Tonks promptly tucked under her head. “But really. I think he’s such a sensitive soul. That gruff, grumpy, withdrawn--okay, really _strange_ \--person is not any of that when you get to know him.”

Tonks had started to giggle midway through the list. Clarissa continued to stare out, dreamily, winding and unwinding hair onto her index finger as the wailing guitar opening and John Lennon’s clear vocal rang out: _“She said . . . I know what it it’s like to be dead. . . . I know what it is to be sad. . . .”_

 

_30 Days Before Solstice_

 

“Amazing! I did it!” Harry’s face lit up like a Christmas tree, telling Clarissa that he had blocked Snape in their last session back at Hogwarts.

“That’s great, Harry!” She loved seeing him look so satisfied.

“He’s a really good Legilimens, isn’t he? And I blocked him! I finally blocked him.”

Clarissa smiled at him broadly and then grew serious. “Harry. I am looking forward to our session today. We’ll build on what you did with Severus. And when you leave, you may take this with you.” She handed him Sirius’s black leather-bound journal.

Harry took the book, and asked, turning it about in his hands, “What is it?”

She opened it for him to see the inscription inside the front cover.

Harry bowed his head a moment, then looked up at her. “Sirius’s last diary. Are you . . . giving this to me? Or may I read it . . . and return it to you?”

She shook her head. “You may keep it, Harry. I have read it. Several times. I have  other pieces of my brother’s writing, all precious to me, of course. But I’d like you to have this one.”

 

_29 Days Before Solstice_

Snape was poring over the entire contents of Lucius’s notes again. He winced as he reread that the most brilliant witch of her generation, “if she choses to rule the world with the Dark Lord . . . would render both immortal, along with their children, for seven generations.” A chill went through him. Would the Dark Lord make his own review of the notes through Easterly’s memory threads? At least the Badger-Hair lines were not there. And the “half-blood Keeper of Secrets, the single son the Dark Lord trusts above all wizards else” had been changed to refer to one most _feared_ by Voldemort. The irony was not lost on Snape that Lucius had probably helped the Phoenix Order with the alteration, as long as Voldemort continued to trust him.

Snape sighed and gave several moments of concentration to painting the mental portrait that he could sense Voldemort reading at that very moment. Spinning out the story of adoring the force of ultimate darkness was now so much a part of him, that he barely paid attention to the effort, nor the consummate tiredness that accompanied this double life. But now a new dimension anchored him: even as the Dark Lord’s hungry tentacles grasped and consumed one side of his mind, Severus resided in the sustaining embrace of Clarissa on the other.

 

Clarissa was brusque one day when Severus strode into the cottage, early, dispensing with her usual niceties, after a quick kiss. “We’ll need antivenoms for the day of battle. Is there any way you can get me a sample of Nagini’s poison?”

Snape arched his brow. “Not unless you want me to perish before the fighting begins.”

“No, darling, as that would be counterproductive. The whole idea is to keep you alive and kicking.” She looked at him thoughtfully over the notebook she was writing in. “Maybe you could at least bring me . . . a piece of snakeskin? Or a discarded fang?” she said, hopefully. “And I’ll need to spend some time in your lab.”

“I’ll arrange for that, gladly,” he responded, pulling her in for a kiss.

 

Two days later she was working in the dungeons, after classroom hours.

“Did the scrap of snakeskin prove to be enough?”

She kept stirring a boiling pot. She nodded, smiled sweetly, and gave him a brief kiss. “Let’s hope so.”

He looked around at the plethora of vials, beakers, and random items which cluttered the available floor space. “You’ve been a busy lady.”

“Oh, indeed.” A curled lock of pure white hair spilled over her forehead. She tried to tuck it back. Steam flooded her face, flushing it pink. “I think I may have several viable antidotes to serpents of Nagini’s kind. The question is, can we keep them potent until the appointed day? At least the dungeons offer a constant temperature.”

He shook his head in wonder at this woman who was equal parts witch, spy, historian, all-round scholar and . . . so beautiful. “Is there anything you _can’t_ do?”

Clarissa smiled at him over the steaming pot and continued swirling the antivenom with her long wooden spoon even as he knocked her off balance with his embrace.

 

_27 Days Before Solstice_

 

Snow began to fall as Clarissa was out walking along the high sea cliffs at dusk--greyed, misty dark which descended a scant seven hours after sunrise here. She relished the starkness of the white flakes against the inky green-black of the water. Far along the shore, she looked  back at the hill high above the cottage, barely visible in the rapidly fading day. She thought, _Silent, upon a peak in Darien._  The ending of a Keats poem she had found in her collection of books and papers from 12 Grimmauld Place. In school days, she had memorized “On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer” without even pondering the meaning of the title; she didn’t connect that Keats was writing about the experience of reading, and comparing that to geographical discovery. She had simply loved the sound and feel of the words, especially the conclusion:

 

Then I felt like some watcher of the skies

    When a new planet swims into his ken;

Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes

    He stared at the Pacific--and all his men

Look’d at each other with a wild surmise--

    Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

 

Since she and her cousin had arrived at the rough, windswept seacoast dwelling, she had been tracking the daylight. Their location offered around seven illumined hours each day, though the sun rarely broke through the shrouded sky; and the lighted minutes were dwindling, of course, until earth made the turn on the twenty-first. She felt confident they were somewhere in the Orkneys, in the far north of Scotland, in an abandoned crofter’s cottage. Bloody far from Cortez’s Darien. But she was afraid to even think the name Orkney. She had been warned by Severus several times not to puzzle out her location, or risk exposing it to Voldemort. Maybe if I keep thinking of the Keats poem, Death Eaters will look for us in Panama. . . .

At any rate, you should have known better than to tell me not to figure it out, Severus.

A vision of Albus flashed into her mind. “Keats could have been writing about love,” she said aloud to the rapidly waning day. And she knew, suddenly, the answer to the question Dumbledore had posed to her before his death.

“I know, Albus, and I will tell him,” she said to the snow and air and black water and hills. As sure as I know where I am on the globe at this moment.

 

_24 Days Before Solstice_

 

One evening in the dungeons Severus presented her with a slim parcel no longer than her hand. She paused in the midst of whisking a foul-smelling brew. “What’s this for?”

He said nothing, just stood looking smug.

“Well, aren’t you rather the cat that swallowed the canary. This looks interesting! And it’s not even my birthday yet!”

She unwrapped the plain paper and pulled open the tiny box. It contained an elegant glass bottle with a crystal stopper.

She looked at him, puzzled. She carefully removed the top. Then she sniffed. “My goodness. Really? Is it?” She dabbed fragrant golden liquid onto her wrist. “Elixir of Ettar! You knew I misplaced mine! But--this is not the bottle it comes in. This one is beautiful.”

He said proudly, “I copied the perfume. The flask was Dumbledore’s.”

Her eyes widened. “How did you make it? Did you get the formula?”

He pointed to his head. “ _That_ scent,” he said, “is tattooed on my brain.”

She kissed him. “Very lovely. Thank you!” She carefully placed the bottle on the bedside table next to where she slept. The glass glinted in the firelight.

“So, when is your birthday?” He tried to sound casual.

“December twenty-second. The day after--the day after the Solstice.”

 

_22 Days Before Solstice_

 

“Harry. Today’s lesson is over,” Snape said, looking him in the eye. “You have done rather well. Have there been any more attempts by the Dark Lord to penetrate your mind?

“No, sir. Just the ones last week.”

Snape was stern. “Stay wary. Be on high alert at all times. He will try again, I feel sure of it. He has been reading me lately, quite a bit more often than usual.”

“Reading you? You let him?” Harry said, not comprehending.

“But of course, I have to allow him in. I must constantly maintain an alternative mental landscape for Voldemort. If I simply blocked him, he would know I was not trustworthy.”

“Oh. Right. That sounds . . . really complicated to do.”

“Yes, it’s tiresome.” Snape paused. “Now I . . . I need to show you something, Harry. I want you to see . . . some of the memories I have of your mother.” Snape suddenly turned pale.

Harry’s face registered pure astonishment. “You--you . . . want me to see . . . your memories of my mother,” he repeated.

“I do,” said Snape, though his face looked unsteady.

 

Harry leaned back in the chair opposite Snape, who sat very still with his eyes closed.

_Severus Snape, may I read your thoughts?_

_\--You may._

Harry saw a young Lily Evans playing with her sister. A tall, thin, round-shouldered boy with huge, luminous gold eyes slipped over to them. Petunia shrieked at him and yelled, “Freak! You skinny, slimy freak! Leave us alone!” But Lily smiled at him kindly and took his hand.

Harry saw them lying on a hillside gazing into the sky, creating shapes out of the clouds.

Next he saw Severus Snape arriving home to be brutally smacked across the room by his father as his mother looked on, indifferent.

He saw Lily, now older, walking hand in hand with Snape. She was lovely. Snape was no less awkward than before; if anything, as a preteen, he was more withdrawn and strange, his face mostly hidden behind lank black strings of greasy hair.

Now at Hogwarts school, Snape watched from an increasing distance as Lily blossomed into womanhood. Harry saw James Potter enter the picture. Handsome and intellectual, so startlingly like Harry.

Harry saw Snape grow even more removed. He practised black magic, alone. He saw James and Sirius taunting him, endlessly. Lily defended him, until Snape issued the terrible insult: _“Mudblood.”_ Lily turned from him, tearful and angry.

He saw Snape watching his mother sitting for her yearbook photo on a crisp fall day in the Hogwarts courtyard. Then Snape was in the library, slipping the photo from the archive into his cape pocket.

He watched Snape tearfully begging someone in shadow to spare the life of Lily Potter. Snape insisted that the July Prophecy was inconclusive. “Please! Do not harm them. I will do anything you ask. . . . Anything.”

Next came the scene of his own nursery bedroom. His mother lay dead. Then Severus Snape was holding her. Harry stood in his crib, crying, a fresh jagged scar across his forehead, bleeding.

The thread trailed away.

Harry opened his eyes. Snape sat across from him as still as a statue, eyes closed. Neither of them spoke for a long while, though Snape very slowly opened his brown eyes and returned Harry’s gaze.

Harry finally broke the stillness. He swallowed hard, but spoke in a steady voice. “Sir, I thank you. It was brave of you, and . . . generous, to show me. That can’t have been an easy thing.” Then he said simply, “It was _you_ who saved me from Voldemort the day Cedric died, on the trail. Your patronus is a doe. Like my mother’s.”

Snape nodded. His eyes were soft and sad. “You deserve to know. She was . . . everything to me. She was also everything to you.” The statement was nothing more nor less than acknowledgement of shared loss.

 

_19 Days Before Solstice_

 

One day Snape brought Clarissa a fat, ancient-looking bound leather folder.

“Is this . . .” She stopped. “Are you sure you trust me with that? You know, I just might go disarm freakboy all on my own, and rule the world!” She laughed lightly, brandishing her wand high above her head.

“That sounds just like you,” he said drolly.

She perused the documents. “Oh. I know what you’ve done! It’s a fake! So clever! We’ll take him a dummy file.”

He smiled and nodded.

“So can I read it? Are the writings copied exactly?”

He shook his head. “No, but most of it is consistent with the notes Lucius took. I decided there was no reason for Voldemort to have all the real information, in case he leaves Godric’s Hollow alive on the twenty-first. Which of course, he won’t. He can’t.” Snape spoke adamantly.

“Good man,” she said. She squeezed his arm and smiled.

 

_16 Days Before Solstice_

 

“Clarissa, can I talk to you about something? It’s about . . . Snape.”

“What is it, Harry? Of course you can talk to me.” Clarissa set aside the Potions chapter she was reading: “Effective Preservation of Zoologic Concoctions.”

Harry sat down on the rough wood floor of the cottage in front of her chair, cross-legged. “He showed me . . . memories of my mother. And him. They were friends, you see.”

“Oh, I know they were, Harry.” She paused, not sure how much she should reveal. “You know, he cared for your mother deeply.”

Harry nodded, a faraway look in his eyes. “It’s so strange. Dumbledore always said that there was more to Snape than I was willing to see. . . . Boy, was he right!” Harry looked at her with wonder. “Kind of like your idea people have ‘more than one story.’”

Clarissa was thoughtful, waiting. It seemed Harry just needed to talk through what he had seen.

“Do you think this is why Snape has always . . . protected me, but hasn’t exactly . . . enjoyed it? Yeah. It makes sense. I remind him of my mother, whom he . . . loved, I think. But also my father . . . whom he definitely didn’t.”

Clarissa smiled down at him. “Sounds right. But it seems to me that Severus feels a little differently about you than he did before. You aren’t the same story to him, either. You’re nearly a grown man, Harry. And Severus respects who you have become. You are neither your mother nor your father. You are Harry Potter. Not just the product of each of your parents.”

Harry smiled and looked at her brightly. “I like the sound of that.”

 

 

In the dungeons, Snape picked up the platinum-framed image of Lily Evans that had moved back and forth from his bedside to the table by his reading chair in the next room, throughout his years teaching at Hogwarts. He gazed fondly at the beautiful, kind face then carefully turned the portrait frame over and opened the back. He slid the photograph out and carried it into the next room.

From a bookshelf he removed the copy of Blake’s _Songs of Innocence and Experience_ he had rediscovered with Clarissa that night in Cokeworth. Opening the front half of the book within the “Songs of Innocence” portion, he tucked the photograph alongside the poem entitled “The Schoolboy” and closed it. He placed the volume back on the shelf.

In his bedroom, he painstakingly removed his stiff shell of clothing in preparation for bed and then tucked the brilliant platinum frame into the breast pocket of the cape hanging on the wall.

 

 


	30. Dark Lord Seeks SWF

_15 Days Before Solstice_

 

Voldemort sent Severus a thread to meet him at the Shrieking Shack that evening. The interior was all broken down furniture, shadows, dust, and bat-droppings. Before Snape entered from the tunnel, he quickly checked the pocket device and saw that Harry was in the Hogwarts Library.

Entering the main room of the shack, he saw Easterly leaning in to Voldemort. Were they whispering? Why? He realized that while Voldemort shouted commands to Nagini, he had never actually heard the two men converse; he assumed they always spoke in threads.

“Thank you for meeting me here, Severus. I assume it is in fact, more convenient for you, than coming all the way to Malfoy Manor?”

“I am here to serve you, my Lord. Where we meet is not a concern.”

“Well,” he said, looking a tad irritated, “Tonight I suppose I felt the need to get out of the house. Sometimes . . . even one woman is too many at the Manor!” He laughed raucously; Easterly smirked.

Voldemort rose and paced a little. He caught a glimpse of himself in an ancient, shadowy mirror, and looked over his tall, lithe figure, quite captivated.

Now Voldemort whisked the air with his Wand and conjured up several comfortable chairs, and a small table with crystal glasses and a decanter filled with amber liquid. A screen depicting a fireplace and a roaring blaze added heat and light. “Gentlemen, I feel a drink would--as they say--hit the spot about now.”

Easterly and Snape each settled themselves in chairs facing Voldemort. Easterly poured three glasses of liquor and handed them out. Voldemort had conjured up a box of cigars, too, and offered them. Easterly took one, lit it, and lit his master’s; Snape shook his head at the offer to smoke but sipped the amber liquid. It was some awful-tasting whisky, but he pretended to enjoy his master’s creation. In very small sips.

Lord Voldemort sucked at the cigar which sent up puffs of sharp-scented smoke. “Severus, tell me,” he said, between puffs. “Have you ever been with a woman?”

Snape was startled but recovered himself not to show it. He immediately felt the probing tentacles of Lord Voldemort’s mind inserting itself into his. Snape nodded. “Why yes, my Lord.” His mind worked fast to create a shadowy image of Madeline Creech and their love-making, which had been far from satisfying; for her as well, he assumed. But knowing the audience for which he produced this mental landscape, he embellished things a bit. In this version of events he and Madeline seemed insatiably hungry for one another.

“Who was she, Severus?”

“I barely recall, my Lord. She is not important. I believe her name was Amy.”

Lord Voldemort smiled, and puffed, and sipped. “Ah, yes, Severus. Women. They are . . . beautiful creatures, but I don’t fully understand the reason for getting so worked up over their fleeting charms. They do have their moments, I suppose.”

“Yes, my Lord.” Severus kept spinning the tape in his mind of passionate moments with a shaded Madeline Creech.

“Take Bella, for example. Have you ever had Bella?”

“No, my Lord.”

“Well. She is skilled, I suppose, at what she does. She speaks quite fondly of you, by the way. I believe if you wished to have her, it could be arranged. I am not a man opposed to sharing his good fortune with a friend.” Voldemort leaned in and stroked Severus’s cheek. “I would like to experience what _you_ . . . would enjoy . . . with Bella.” Voldemort’s fingers lingered under Severus’s chin.

Snape’s blood chilled a few degrees at the thought. But feeling Voldemort reading him closely, he spun a vision of Bella in his mind. Bella kissing him, Bella groping him. . . . Voldemort reading. Awful. But a necessary exercise.

Thankfully, Voldemort changed the subject. Snape could leave an unsated Bella in his mind, off to the side, pouting and panting.

“Severus. You do recall that Lucius made a record of the Elder Wand file’s contents?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“I have been reviewing those notes through Mr. Easterly’s records. I found something very interesting. It is written that the ‘most brilliant witch of her generation’ will come from the House of Black to rule the Wand. Naturally, my inclination initially was . . . to dispose of all witches of the House of Black! But now I also understand that if this ‘most brilliant witch’ would choose to rule with me, the union would render me immortal, along with my children, for seven generations.”

Severus remained deathly still.

“I find the prospect of this union . . . quite interesting. . . . I have never considered . . . _children_ before.” Voldemort gave a shudder. “They . . . seem to be horrid things. But a dynasty. . . .”  His face brightened. “A dynasty, Severus! Imagine it. And I believe Bella may be with child.”

“Congratulations, my Lord.” Snape let out a long slow breath.

Voldemort puffed his cigar with an air of smug pride. “Thank you, Severus, but I cannot be sure yet . . . of Bella’s role in my future. I do not know that she will provide me what I require.” Voldemort gazed at Snape suddenly and searchingly. “How capable a witch is Clarissa Black? You know her quite well, do you not?”

Snape felt the tentacles clutching inside his mind. “She is . . . talented, my Lord, certainly. But the ‘most brilliant of a generation’ is rather difficult to determine, wouldn’t you say?”

“Indeed, Severus, indeed. But her deeds at Azkaban are legend. You know, she helped her brother _escape.”_ Voldemort shook his head, in awe of the fact that this feat were possible. “I hear she is perhaps the most gifted Legilimens to have been held there. And in spite of my efforts to read her, I have found her . . . blocked. Except on one or two occasions of her being very drunk, when she has relived prison life. Moments in Azkaban when the dementors found her . . . quite satisfying. Clarissa Black was a frequent diversion for the host of them. Reading her dreams of the way they used her, Severus, has nearly made up for the fact that she managed to get away.”

Snape gave his master a long, slow nod.

Voldemort sipped his Scotch. “But she has been . . . altogether closed to me for some time. Perhaps she does not drink like she used to. Pity.” He now faced Severus squarely. “Can you bring Clarissa Black to me? I would like to arrange . . . a meeting.”

He swallowed audibly. “I cannot bring her, my Lord. She is missing. She . . . ran away the night Dumbledore died. She and the cousin, Nymphadora Tonks. I thought this had been reported to you? If not, I was negligent in the omission.”

“Ah, interesting information. Two of the Black cousins. Missing. On the same night as the Malfoy clan disappeared.” He probed Severus’s brain hard. It felt as if his head were being slowly scoured.

“Indeed.”

“Well, I will need you to locate her. I need her, you see. The cause needs her. She is instrumental to my purpose, I can sense it. Find her before the twenty-first. Your gifts should be equal to the task, Severus. In fact, if they are found together, I would like to meet both cousins. And eventually, I hope to locate Narcissa as well.” Voldemort sipped some more. “Women. A necessary chore, I suppose.”

He smiled at Snape and drew a long waxy finger under Severus’s chin. “Frankly, Severus, you are vastly more dear to me than these feminine creatures we are supposed to pine for. I far prefer spending an evening reading your thoughts about me, than cavorting with Bella in those acrobatics she craves so regularly now . . . that I am a man again.” He gazed down at the area between his legs in some bewilderment.

Slowly Snape felt the grip on his mind easing as Voldemort removed his finger from beneath his chin. But his blood felt a dozen degrees colder.

 

_12 Days Before Solstice_

 

Severus Snape entered the cluttered shop in Knockturn Alley with a wrapped flat rectangular package in his hand. He handed it to the shopkeeper, a very old man with white bushy hair that stood up all around his head. Even his eyebrows added to this effect: they were at least an inch long but grew up and out from his face.

The man opened the package and looked over the contents, pleased.

Snape held a short conversation with him. The man nodded, and Snape strode out.

 

That night in the dungeons Snape had a seventh dream about the lake.

_He was far from land, swimming back towards shore. With every other stroke he could see Clarissa on the beach, waving to him. Now and again she would shout. “Severus! Keep swimming! I’m waiting!”_

_He strained with the effort to reach her. It seemed his arms and legs were attached to stone weights. Each time he tried to make a stroke through the water, he felt heavier. He was sinking._

_Then, she was pulling his body up onto the beach. She was calling his name. She was over him, slapping his face. Then crying. She pushed on his chest over and over, hard. She kissed him. Her clear, dark blue eyes were the last thing he remembered._

 

_6 Days Before Solstice_

 

Voldemort sat rather stiffly on a plush leather couch in front of the the giant Malfoy fireplace, Bellatrix draped alongside him.

“Bella, dear, please remove yourself.”

Bellatrix stood, stuck her tongue out at Snape, and flounced out.

“Harry, and the file, will come to me in Godric’s Hollow, Severus. You will see to it?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Voldemort held a pale drink in a crystal goblet. He looked rather like a strangely tall child playing at being an adult as he sipped. “You will also bring me Clarissa Black.”

“Yes, my Lord. My sources say she is near. I will do my best to see that she comes to you at Godric’s Hollow.”

“Good, Severus. Tell me, as I have not had the privilege of seeing her yet. Is she . . . very good looking? Does she take proper care of herself? Does she have a sense of style?”

Severus blinked at him. “My Lord, I am the wrong person to ask. I do not put stock in such superficialities.”

“Well. I hope she’s pretty. I admire your purity, Severus. But I like a nice face around the place, you know. And a good figure. It does help pass the time, to be entertained. Women are at least good for that.”

Snape nodded grimly. “Yes, my Lord.”

 

 


	31. The Shrieking Shack

_The Night Before Solstice_

 

Clarissa hummed a soft tune to herself as she packed a small bag for the evening. Severus said he was taking her “somewhere special.” Where he might take her under the circumstances, she could only wonder.

“A notch above the dungeons,” he had said with a twinkle in his eye.

“What was that leg hair removal spell you told me you knew?” she called to Tonks from the tub.

A while later she dug through a backpack and held up the sexiest items of clothing she could find: a camisole bra top, and yoga pants, which she put on, with a drapey sweater over top. She tucked overnight necessaries, and two flat, wrapped parcels into her bag.

Tonks came in while she was drying her hair. “I guess neither of us will need the ovulation suppression spell tonight. Lucky timing, all around. You’ve just finished your period, right?”

Clarissa nodded. The two women’s cycles had quickly synched--another byproduct of cottage living.

Snape and Lupin arrived within a few minutes of each other.

“Severus,” said Lupin, extending a hand. “I trust you are feeling fully prepared for tomorrow?”

Tonks looked nervously at the two. As did Clarissa. She was aware that the next time they were all together would be battle. And Snape would be cloaked in his role as Voldemort’s trusted agent.

Snape still held Remus’s hand, and gave it a firm shake. “We are as prepared as we can be, Remus. Godspeed, man.” As he held Remus’s hand, each gave the other a solid thump on the back.

Clarissa winked at her cousin. “Enjoy having the place to yourselves tonight.” She kissed Tonks, and then Remus. “See you tomorrow, cousin. Remus, as I won’t likely see you beforehand . . . I wish you well at the Hollow!”

Severus and Clarissa walked out to the rocky overlook.

“We will portkey to Hogsmeade,” said Snape, with a small smile. “I believe you know the place? The Shrieking Shack on the edge of town . . .”

She laughed. “The Shrieking Shack? Oooh la la. Whatever you say, darling.” She secured her messenger bag across her chest as both grabbed hold of the cairn.

They arrived on the far outskirts of the town. The place looked as desolate and ramshackle as she remembered from school days when she and her friends were terrified to set foot in it, but once inside, she saw the dingy, dusty, decrepit hovel had become . . . less dusty and decrepit. A fire crackled in the fireplace. Lit candles of every size flickered on the mantel, on table tops, and on bookcases. A small table was set in the center of the room with beautiful plates. Silver-domed serving dishes sat ready; crystal wine goblets sparkled in the candle-light.

The sight took her breath away. She felt suddenly woozy, as the weight of this night--perhaps the only they would have together--

He drew her close for a kiss. “The place is being held under a protective spell. We are the only beings who can come inside. The security reaches all the way to the willow.”

She looked at him gratefully. “It’s marvellous.” Then, with concern, “But what about Voldemort’s desire to read you? Won’t he wonder, if you are out of touch all night?”

“Probably not. He does not find me open while I sleep; I would never have survived without dream protections. But a series of prayer threads will go out automatically. . . .” He kissed her again and smiled. “Clarissa Black, may I have the first dance?”

As he spun her around the homely but intimate space she kept hearing the words of John Keats: “Silent, upon a peak in Darien.” She thought, I should tell him. I should say what it is I love . . . but she could not quite think to form words. His body moving with hers was a world unto itself. . . .

Dobby’s dinner was quickly forgotten as he took her by the hand and led her to the tiny bedroom, dominated by a large four poster bed draped in deep blue damask silk. Candles were placed in clusters all around the room.

He gently took hold of the bottom of her sweater and pulled it over her head. Holding her hand, he stepped back, staring in a way that made her feel giddy and flush.

He said, “You . . . are brilliantly . . . beautiful.”

She smiled sweetly and drew him to her. Then, while she kissed him gently on the lips, nose, cheeks, and chin, she slowly, calmly unbuttoned the long wool tunic. He shut his eyes; hers remained open. She unbuttoned, kissing his chest down, down, gradually down, and sent out: _As the lovers Adam and Eve enter their inmost bower, they eas’d the putting off these troublesome disguises which we wear. . . ._ When there were no more buttons, she slid the tunic over his head and off. He stood in his white shirt, which she opened, and removed.

 

At Hagrid’s hut, the crowd was rowdy. They had been gathered for several hours, and the beer flowed freely.

Hagrid thumped Harry heartily on the back. “Whatev’r happens tomorrow, lad. Whatev’r happens. I just want you to know, you’re the best there ever was. And I am there for you, ’arry!” He picked Harry up by the scruff of his collar. “I am there for you! No Lord Fookin’ Voldemort goblin Death Eater thingy is gonna get you! Not on my watch!” He smacked Harry again on the back causing Harry to cough loudly. Hagrid slammed his beer mug down on the table. And then his massive head promptly wilted onto his chest.

Ron smiled broadly and hoisted his mug. “To me very best friend. To Harry!”

Hermione patted Ron’s head and took a drink from his mug. She belched and grinned sheepishly.

Neville proposed a toast: “To Dumm’ldore’s Army. And to Harry Freakin’ Pottah, our Captain!”

Luna smiled sweetly at Neville and planted a large, wet kiss on his cheek. He turned a few shades of pink.

Ginny said with prim, motherly concern, “Harry. You do need your rest tonight. Maybe we should. . . .”

“Yes,” Harry said. “We should be going.”

The group collected itself and began to exit the lodge.

Hagrid’s head jolted upright. “Are ya leavin’ so soon?”

 

 


	32. Godric's Hollow

_Solstice_

 

Severus was awake with first light. Clarissa’s back was against him; she was naked and warm and fantastic against his own bare body. He breathed in the scent of her hair and marvelled. He was afraid to move; while he lay still, there was no other world but this bed and this woman in his arms.

Clarissa stirred against him and sighed. She stretched her legs and toes out, arching her back like a cat and then reached an arm around his backside and pulled him closer. She turned to face him with a grin as he stretched out onto his back.

“Good morning, beautiful,” she said, propping herself alongside him.

He spoke in a deep, sleepy voice. “I could get used to hearing those words first thing in the morning. . . .”

“I would love for you to.” She stroked the hair back from his forehead. She ran her hands over his eyelids, his nose, his cheeks, his mouth. Then she rested her head on his chest, and he lightly touched every part of her face. He continued down her arms and her legs, as far as he could reach. “You are . . . a wonder,” he said.

She sat up, suddenly, leaning against him. “Severus, there is a Bulgarian tradition that on one’s birthday, you give the people you love a special gift. I am a firm follower of this tradition.”

He turned and nodded. His eyes were wide.

“And while I know my birthday is yet a day away . . .” She left the thought unfinished. She reached into her bag at the foot of the bed and took out a roll of tied parchment. She handed it to him.

He removed the ribbon tie and carefully unrolled the stiff paper.

“My goodness.” He sat up against the headboard, and read.

She bit her lip, waiting.

“Great Giles. Clarissa. Where did you get it?”

She shrugged. “I imagine I’ve always had it. Phineas Nigellus Black had it long before me. It was in a box of my family’s papers that wound up in our attic. For years this has been with my own poetry collection in my bedroom.”

He continued to stare at the text before him. “The original manuscript of ‘Jerusalem.’ These are the handwritten words of William Blake.” He read aloud, _“Bring me my Bow of burning gold, Bring me my Arrows of desire . . .  I will not cease from mental fight, Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand: Till we have built Jerusalem, My Kingdom’s green and pleasant land._ He changed the words of the last line, later,” Snape observed.

“Yes, that’s interesting, isn’t it? _‘Kingdom’s’_ became _‘England’s_ green and pleasant land.’ Maybe a burst of nationalist energy. Or he wanted to keep the metaphor more clear and concrete.”

He read the whole manuscript over again. “I like it this way,” he said.

Now Clarissa leaned in closer. “Severus, Albus told me just days before he died that I must discover what I love about you. And he said, I had to tell you. So--” She kissed him. “I am telling you: I love your courage.” She kissed him again. “You have broken out of the shell you put around yourself, pushed past the boundaries you laid down for your life, and--” kiss--“you’ve also made me a partner in this operation.” Kiss. “I’m an equal, one of the very few who has been allowed to help you. Allowing someone to work with you requires more courage--” kiss--“than going it alone.” She held his face in both her hands. “So. Your courage is what I love. Courage to remake your world. I think you are building . . . a new version of you life, and that’s what Blake wrote of.”

He drew back and looked at her for a long time. “Dumbledore . . . told you to tell me that.”

“Yes.”

He shut his eyes and clutched her wrists for several seconds. “Thank you,” he said, opening his eyes. “I have something for you, too.”

He reached into a drawer next to the bed.

He turned her hand over and placed in her palm a small white silk bag with the words _Borgin and Burkes_ etched in fine silver calligraphy.

She stared at the delicate parcel.

“Go ahead. Please. Open it.”

Her face flushed a little as she pulled the drawstring, exposing a square white box. Clarissa carefully lifted the hinged compartment to reveal a dark, smoky blue sapphire pendant surrounded by diamonds.

With unsteady hands she held up the delicate gold chain; the dark gem flashed a fiery center in the surrounding candlelight. It was as if a tiny five-point gold star were embedded inside the sapphire stone. The gem was about the size of her index fingernail. It was dainty and exquisite and the most beautiful piece of jewelry she had ever seen.

“What is it?” Her voice came breathlessly. “I have never seen a stone . . . do that!”

“It’s a Star Sapphire. From Australia. The gold star variety is quite rare.”

She was tearful as she kissed him. “I will wear it forever. Help me.” She held her hair up so that he could fasten it around her neck. “Please, put a fixative spell on the chain.” He complied with the simple piece of wand work.

He admired the look of the necklace against her creamy skin.

She kissed him and again held his face between her hands, staring deeply into his brown eyes.

His voice was deep, resonant, and slow. “Will you have me, Clarissa Black, whose name means shining, starry dark?” He leaned over, and down to kiss her chest next to the glowing Star Sapphire.

“I will,” she said.

He pulled her face to his, then turned her onto her back. Early rays of sunlight through the one bedroom window flashed fire as they hit the starry stone resting on her chest. _Albus, it is a fine kingdom,_ he said to himself, gazing down, before lowering himself to her again.

 

And as the dawning day was the one appointed for their noon meeting with Voldemort in Godric’s Hollow, they were on the move by mid-morning.

 

Outside the cottage she clutched his arm. “Please, Severus . . . Be careful.” Her eyes were wet and she shook, feeling acutely sick to her stomach.

Snape put his arm around her waist and pulled her close. “I will see you later. Be strong!” He kissed her quickly, gave her a last searching gaze, and was off in a blur of inky flight.

Clarissa promptly retched, then leaned against the doorframe for several minutes trying to control her wildly thumping heart and twitching nerves.

“Are you okay?” called Tonks from inside.

“Yeah, fine, thanks,” she said, though she doubted her own words.

She went in and got to work. She promptly located the small canvas pouch that already contained some simple first aid items. The pouch was lined with little compartments for liquid storage vials. She carefully inserted the six different antivenoms she had concocted and preserved, arranging them from the one she thought most potent down to the one she was least sure about.

“Here’s hoping I have any worth as a Potions master,” as she strapped the bag around her waist.

Next, she placed the fake Elder Wand dossier in her messenger bag.

She found the pearl-handled pistol she had stowed on a shelf along with the bullet cartridges. Fumbling them, several pieces of ammunition clattered onto the floor. She breathed out slowly, grabbed them up and said aloud, “Get a grip, now, ’Rissa.” She loaded and placed the pistol at the small of her back, then retrieved a second gun and loaded it.

She walked to the front room and extended the ivory-handled pistol to Tonks.  

Her cousin took it, gave a low whistle, and looked at her admiringly. “Good thinking, darling, really good thinking. You never know, right?”

Clarissa smiled tensely, “You never know. A good witch is a prepared witch.”

“Hey, are you okay?”

Clarissa nodded, but said, “I will be. I just feel a little . . . well, completely fucking terrified, to be honest.”

She grabbed Clarissa by the arm and stared hard. “Listen to me. Look at me. It _will_ be okay. You’ll be brilliant. We’ll be brilliant, and--” She laughed hollowly. “Of course, I’m scared bloody shitless, myself.”

Clarissa looked into her cousin’s bright eyes and could only nod. They hugged each other hard.

They portkeyed to Hogsmeade and waited, fidgeting.

“Harry and Mad-Eye should be here,” Clarissa said, anxiously looking around.

“They’ll come.” Tonks patted Clarissa on the back.

Clarissa thought her intestines would explode. No toilet around here, she thought, looking around. The pub wouldn’t open for an hour.

Within a few minutes, the auror arrived with Harry in a noisy swirl of matter.

“Clarissa, Tonks, good morning!” said Mad-Eye softly in his deep, gruff voice.

Harry nodded at them and Clarissa tried to look calm.

Tonks confirmed, “The rest are there, correct?”

Mad-Eye nodded. “They should all be in position, ready for whatever happens!”

Clarissa said, “Then, we’re off.” They each took hold of the portkey.

 

Clarissa was trying hard not to let her legs and arms shake as the four strode into Godric’s Hollow, having been deposited just outside of the empty town. Walking helped her ignore the lurching, churning of her gut; shutters flapped noisily in the chill wind that blew along the houses lining the deserted roadway. She adjusted the heavy messenger bag across her chest and nervously fingered the small vials in the belted pouch. She counted the flasks over and over again. One two three four five six, one two three four five six, one two three . . . Too bad none of these vials have shots of whisky in them. Why did I not think to bring a flask, today, of all days? Though it had been weeks since she’d had anything to drink at all--the last time being at Grimmauld, after Dumbledore’s memorial--she suddenly had a taste for it.

They passed by the cemetery and Harry’s parents’ grave. They turned and walked up Church Lane.

Clarissa looked at the youngest member of their group to see how he was faring.

Harry was calm, holding his wand at his side with convincing insouciance.

Clearly, doing better than I am, she thought. Good man, Harry.

Near the small center square, Tonks and Mad-Eye each embraced the other two and said, “Good luck.” Tonks squeezed Clarissa’s arm. “Stay strong, cousin..” Then she and Mad-Eye entered a nearby building where they had staked out their spot. Remus, Minerva, Ginny, Hagrid, Shacklebolt, Ron, Luna, and Neville were all at various stations around the town.

“So, it’s you and me, kid,” she said to Harry, wryly.

In the next minute she glimpsed three tall figures walking in from the other direction. She sucked in her breath. “Giles. They’re early.” By way of some ancient enchantment the clock on the tower of the St. Clementine’s Church was working, as it had since the town’s founding centuries ago. It read six minutes until noon.

Harry looked over at her. “This is it.” 

She looked at him and nodded. She watched Voldemort flanked by Snape and Easterly approach. How normal they all looked. Just three men striding slowly and deliberately through a deserted town. But how unlike each other under the skin. Remember what the Dark Lord is capable of, she said to herself. Visions of what were now his dementors filled her head, along with the feeling of being dried out, frozen from within. . . . She breathed deeply and felt the countering warmth that flooded her chest and lower body. I’m whole again, you bloodless monster. And I will stay that way.

The only way out is through, she had heard once. Iva, her assistant at Troyan in the years before Azkaban, had given birth to a baby girl there. Clarissa assisted in the delivery. Afterwards Iva had said that the most terrifying part of labor was knowing you had no real control over the outcome. An outside force was pushing you to the end point. _The only way out is through_. I’ll see you on the other side of it, Severus; the thing begins now.

 

The figures of Easterly, Voldemort, and Snape drew within about fifteen yards of Harry and Clarissa.

The high-pitched, whispery voice of Voldemort shredded the silence. “Clarissa Black, is it? So lovely to finally meet you. I gather that you have the file in that bag?”

She nodded.

“You’ll pardon my suspicious nature, but if you would, please, show it to me.”

She carefully opened the flap with her left hand while holding her wand in front of her, at the ready. She thumbed through the dossier, showing the various papers inside, until Voldemort nodded at her slowly.

“Set it down, please, dear. It looks heavy. Rest yourself.”

Slowly, deliberately, keeping her wand arm poised, she pulled the strap over her head and tossed the bag out of the way. Easterly snatched it up and placed it near the feet of his commander.

“Clarissa Black, I thank you for the delivery of the file. But I have come to question . . .  just how much the papers will benefit me.” He held up the Elder Wand and gazed at it. “You see, the Wand has never responded to me, as I am not its master. I have often wondered . . .” Voldemort’s voice was plaintively sweet and low. “But I will find Draco Malfoy, and we will sort matters out. It is just a matter of time. Perhaps you will help me?”

Easterly grinned at Clarissa with mouth closed. His eyes were yellow green slits. She shuddered.

A black, inky streak came shooting across the space of sky over Godric’s Hollow, careening towards the town center. Bellatrix Lestrange landed next to Voldemort, displacing Snape as a wild tangle of frizzy black, white-streaked hair caught his wand. He quickly extracted the stick and righted himself.

Voldemort’s eyes flashed red. “Bella! I told you to stay at the mansion!” He hissed, “You have no business here!”

Bellatrix clutched his arm. “But, dear V., you know I hate to miss the big day! You can’t expect me to amuse myself around that big drafty house, with nothing to do. I want to help you.” She looked from Clarissa to Harry with hungry eyes, fingering her wand with her long, black fingernails as she licked her lips.

He flung her off; she landed in a small heap with a crunch and a high-pitched “Oh!”

Voldemort rolled his eyes, and continued, “Clarissa Black, according to the Prophecy, you and I could do wonderful things together. Our bond could make a dynasty more powerful than anything . . . the world has ever seen, ever will see. It could be . . . quite beautiful . . .”

Bellatrix craned her neck to look at him, then leaped to her feet. “What are you talking about? My snotty little boy toy cousin? And _you?”_

“Bella, be quiet!” he hissed at her, while he continued to stare hard at Clarissa. “So, Miss Black. We should talk further. Maybe we could go somewhere . . . more private, for a few minutes?”

Voldemort strode slowly towards her, his arms spread in a gesture of openness. The long fingers of his right hand were curled around the Elder Wand. Snape and Easterly stayed back. Bella put her arms across her chest and scowled.

As the tall, slim figure of Voldemort approached, she wondered what to say or do that would buy them some time. Maybe she should go with him? Instinct told her that could prove disastrous. But he only needed to disarm her to rule the Wand. Or was he in fact mad enough to think a union with her was a possibility? If she could play it right . . .

“Yes, perhaps we could talk somewhere,” she said in a voice smaller than she liked. Her throat was dry. Her heart quavered in waves. Deep breaths, deep breaths. Harry looked at her, wide-eyed. His head shook a barely perceptible warning.

“Very good, Clarissa, very good. I would enjoy getting to know you better. Why is it we have never been friends?” He was quite close to them now. She could see the papery pale skin of his face, the reptilian eyes. A dank, peculiar odor emanated from him, the smell of things left too long in the icebox.

From behind Voldemort Snape was staring hard at her. Clarissa sent him a thread. _I could go with him. It may pay off. He won’t be looking to kill me._

Snape’s thread came to her in a split second. _No. Don’t do it._

Voldemort paused. Slowly, very slowly, he turned back to Severus, with a sad, uncomprehending gaze.

Snape’s face fell.

_Really, Severus. I am quite disappointed in you. My most trusted, my most beloved . . . Why is it always a woman coming between us?_

Snape stared back at him, blank and helpless.

Voldemort’s Wand threw a long green stream towards Snape as he bellowed in fury, _“Avada Kedavra!”_

Snape came alive, blocking him with a defensive stream. Wandfire ricocheted around the town square, knocking shutters and shingles to the ground.

Voldemort screamed, “Nagini! Kill him!”

Easterly’s fine-featured head, wavy hair and lithe figure leaped through the air towards Snape, becoming the enormous serpent in midair, fangs exposed. Snape sent out a stream of blue fire that repelled him. Then, all around them, black streams of inky air were boiling up into Death Eaters. A dozen figures had joined in the fight; the battle of Godric’s Hollow became a mess of smoke, multi-coloured flashes of light, and shouted, crashing spells.

Clarissa yelled to Harry as he defended several rapid-fire strikes. “Good show, Harry! Great work!” She herself had just deflected a stream of green.

She saw two death eaters crumple up ahead of her, caught by her ricochet.

Amidst the noise, and smoke, and light streaks, Clarissa told herself, Focus. One at a time, one at a time.

Voldemort’s high-pitched screech was heard over everything. “Clarissa Black! I want her alive! I need her taken alive!”

A second later she felt herself tackled, then swept off her feet and onto the burly back of a Death Eater running at full tilt. The wind was knocked out of her; she struggled to regain a breath as she rode, head down, upon the shoulders of Fenrir Greyback.

Bloody fucking hell, she thought. As she bounced up and down she jammed her elbow hard into his gut--or was it lower? At any rate, the desired effect was achieved as he crumpled with a wet-sounding grunt. Falling forward, he rolled over Clarissa. He was sprawled out on the ground dead center in front of her as she came up, wand in motion.

“Sorry, scumbag. _Avada Kedavra!”_

Clarissa looked around. The scene was utter, maddening chaos. She could make out nothing substantial; black smoke clouded her vision, stinging her eyes and filling her lungs.

The voice of Remus Lupin cut through the smoke. “Fall back! Over here, over here!”

She headed for the voice, and found herself inside an arched breezeway. Tonks was there, looking wildly about. Remus grabbed Clarissa as she stepped inside.

“Glad to see you got rid of Greyback.” He smiled crookedly.

Clarissa panted, unable to answer. But quickly she managed to croak, “Snape? Where is he? And Harry?”

As if in answer to her, Harry appeared on the run, with Ron and Hermione on either side of him, shooting wandfire behind.

She sent a thread to Snape. _Over here. Let’s regroup._

Flaming wandshots reverberated all around them. A dark figure emerged on the run from the haze.

Severus.

Coming through the portico he grabbed hold of Clarissa and gestured with his head. “Let’s  hole up inside. Harry . . . your parents’ house is right through here.”

As they ran the rest of the way through the arched, smoke-filled entry, Clarissa almost tripped over a pair of legs.

“Luna!” cried Clarissa. Harry, and the rest of the group crowded in. Neville lay beside the inert form of Luna Lovegood.

“Luna! Neville! Are you alright?” exclaimed Harry.

Far from it. Luna was bleeding profusely from the right arm; the hand was . . . gone. Neville seemed to be stunned.

Clarissa whipped out a strip of cloth from the kit at her waist. “Boys, check Neville out. Luna. Luna, look at me! Look here!” She grabbed the girl’s face and slapped it, as Luna looked off to the side of her, rather dreamily. Clarissa wrapped her tattered arm.

Clarissa fingered the antivenom vials  in the waist pouch, mumbling. “Ah. Right, this one ought to help as a general anti-bloodloss tonic.” She pulled out the fifth vial, uncapped it, and held it to Luna’s pale lips.

“Drink it, Luna. There you go.” She nodded and smiled, massaging the girl’s cheeks.

“Help me get her inside!”

Snape and Remus grabbed the girl’s legs and shoulders, and picked her up. Snape directed. “Ahead, there!” He led them through the other side of the arched doorway and into a small stone courtyard. Holding Luna across the chest with one arm, he tried a door. Finding it locked, he shouted, _“Alohomora!”_ and was in. “Lock the door behind me, Remus!”

Lupin nodded.

Snape and Remus got Luna indoors, then Harry, Neville, Clarissa, and Tonks were through.

Once in the empty house, the relative quiet was eerie. All of the Order members were breathing heavily, wiping their sweaty faces and looking about at each other, assessing.

“Harry. Are you okay?” asked Snape.

“I’m good. Everyone?”

Those standing nodded.

Clarissa tightened the bandage on Luna’s arm. “Ron! Hermione! Get Neville and Luna into that side room out of the way! Be sure to keep pressure on her arm!” Ron and Hermione dragged Luna by the shoulders. Neville followed.

Remus said, “I heard Voldemort yelling he wants you alive. That’s good news.”

Snape came alongside her. She could see he had been cut above his left eye; blood streamed down his face.

“Severus. You’re hurt.”

He waved her off, but she pulled out a bandage and held it to his head.

“This was my parents’ house,” said Harry, looking about them. “My house.” He had seen the place in Snape’s memory. At the far end of the room were the stairs Snape had climbed to find his mother lying dead, in front of Harry’s crib, in the room above.

Clarissa spoke a little breathlessly as she held the cloth on Snape. “Voldemort--wants me alive. This--helps us! I have more freedom to help administer--”

Tonks blurted, teary-eyed, “I think I saw Mad-Eye go down.”

Harry nodded, sadly. “I saw it, too. He--he was defending me.” Harry grimaced.

“I’ll go see if I can help him!” Clarissa turned to Tonks. “Where was he?”

Tonks and Harry both shook their heads. “No use. He’s gone,” said her cousin.

Severus now addressed the group. “We do not have long here. They’ll find us. Harry, keep mental defences high.”

Harry nodded. “Has anyone seen Ginny? Did some of them stay up, at windows?”

Ron shrugged, sadly. “Haven’t seen her in a while, mate. Nor Minerva, nor Hagrid. Nor Kingsley.”

Severus grabbed Clarissa, pulling her a few feet away into a narrow hallway. He turned her towards him. “I must tell you something,” he said, “Albus--told me I must.” He drew her in for a kiss, pressing her against the wall. “He said I must say to you what I most fear, going into battle.”

She clutched his arm.

He gazed at her, examining each feature of her face as if memorizing it. “At this moment, Clarissa, what I fear--is not Harry dying, anymore. I will do all I can, but it’s--out of my hands. And it’s not me dying, either. I’ve been prepared for death since Lily was killed. For a long time I was ready to join her. I believed the best I could do in this world was give myself for Lily’s son. But now, it’s all different. I only fear . . . living . . . without you.” He bent his head down to rest it on her chest for a moment, then looked up. “It’s that simple.”  His eyes were roaming her face. Then, he took her hand and held it fast between their bodies, pressing into her.

“I’m not going to die today, Severus. Neither are you.” She took his face in her hands. “And I will not be captured by Voldemort.”

But Snape was staring at her sadly, like he was seeing a ghost.

A loud crashing of glass meant their hideout had been discovered. Death Eaters boiled up around them in the cramped space of what used to be James and Lily Potter’s living room.

Tonks’s anguished scream brought Clarissa to her cousin, where she was bent over Remus. He was clutching Tonks. A fist-sized hole in his side was pouring blood.

Remus became still, his eyes open and urgent.

“Oh, god. Remus!” Clarissa brushed the tears from her face as she stood over Tonks, shielding her against the wandfire that had erupted everywhere.

Next, she saw the gaping mouth of Nagini flying past her at Snape. The snake was diverted as it dodged Clarissa’s death curse. Snape was saved from the fangs, but the snake receded and coiled again, backing them towards the front door.

Snape and Clarissa fought alongside Harry, moving backwards together. After a tremendous crash, they were suddenly in open air. Voldemort strode through black smoke towards Harry. Bella skipped along behind him, deranged.

Voldemort hissed, “Harry Potter, you will lose. . . . You will lose everything!”  Rapid-fire strike after strike after strike came at Harry. Clarissa, Severus, and Harry intercepted several of the blows with defensive wandfire. Numerous defensive streams were also coming from windows surrounding the courtyard. Minerva, Kingsley maybe. And Ginny, and Hagrid! Clarissa thought, heartened.

Then Clarissa saw terrifying, rapid motion out of the corner of her eye. Nagini was coming at Severus again. But this time, Severus’s back was to the huge snake.

“Severus! No!”

The snake’s enormous head, turned sideways, enveloped the back of Snape’s neck and head. The snake and the man hung together for several upright seconds.

 _“Stupefy!”_ she yelled, hitting the animal. The giant serpent slid down Snape’s back. Severus turned to gaze at her.

She pointed her wand arm to Nagini and cried, _“Avada Kedavra!”_

Snape stood staring at her, a small smile on his face. “Clarissa,” he whispered.

She ran to him as he crumpled to the ground.

She saw Harry dueling Voldemort as Bella hopped erratically around her lover. Inky departures of Death Eaters smudged the sky over Godric’s Hollow; it seemed none remained of the enemy force but Bella and Voldemort himself.

Clarissa was kneeling next to Snape, digging into the pouch. “Severus, hang on!” Vials clattered to the stone surface. He had fallen with his head cocked at an unnatural angle. His eyes were staring vacantly as she located the first anti-venom and held it to his pale lips. “Please, Severus! Please! Drink it!” She clutched his face in both hands, as his eyes registered no response.

She was groping in the pouch for something to staunch the blood pouring from his neck when behind her, Clarissa heard running footsteps.  Over the noise of Harry and Voldemort’s wandfire, a voice called out to her in taunting singsong fashion, “Clarissa Black! Poor little girl! And your poor, darling Severus Snape! You certainly will not live to have _my_ man!”

Clarissa leaped to her feet to face Bellatrix Lestrange, running at her. In a split second Clarissa saw that her own wand lay out of reach on the other side of Severus.

Clarissa snatched at her back, whipping the pistol out. She pulled, fired, hitting Bella squarely in the chest, all in an instant.

Bella halted, staring in disbelief at the gun.

Clarissa, panting, stared at the blood-soaked front of her cousin’s black dress.

“My own cousin . . . My sweet, darling cousin! Clarissa Black! You’ve . . . you’ve killed me.” She staggered backwards. Then Bellatrix, wailing, crumpled to the ground and shattered into a thousand dusty fragments.

Clarissa strode over the shards of her cousin’s body to where Harry and Voldemort were bonded by a continuous stream of wandfire. Each howled with the effort of being tied to the killing arm of the other.

Clarissa pointed the gun at the Dark Lord, her arm fully extended. Her voice was booming. Her hair made a golden brown halo around her head, crowned by the lightning bolt of bright white above her face. “Voldemort! Are you ready to see what happens when the Mistress of the Elder Wand shoots you, you fucking freak of nature?”

For just a moment, panic flitted across Voldemort’s thin, filmy face. His own stream of green wand light was interrupted.

She pulled the trigger, just as he turned to her and shrieked, _“Avada Kedavra!”_ sending the green stream into her face.

Harry’s wandstream hit Voldemort just as Clarissa’s gunshot did, entering him with a loud sucking sound.

The killing curse threw Clarissa several yards, to where Snape lay. The gun landed with a clatter next to the partially coiled, upturned belly of Nagini.

Harry, panting, watched in horror. “Clarissa!”

Voldemort looked at Harry pleadingly, like a child. Blood was spilling from his chest. “She has killed me, Harry Potter. She . . . will not be mine.”

Harry stared, transfixed at the sight of Voldemort’s body as it began to shimmer and wave, like a flickering picture screen.

“But you, Harry Potter, must not live: _Avad--”_

 _“Expelliarmus!”_ bellowed Harry, and Voldemort’s last opportunity to kill the boy was ripped from him as the Elder Wand flew. Harry caught the Wand in his left hand.

Harry stood over the crumpled remains of Lord Voldemort on the hallowed ground of Godric’s Hollow, a wand in each hand, as sparse cheers came from windows around the inner courtyard.

 

Severus’s body beneath hers was still warm. She turned her face into his neck.

 _Severus . . . Stay with me. Please stay . . ._ There was no answering thread. She tasted the iron slipperiness of blood. She could no longer lift her head to see his eyes. The air around her had become all feathery darkness like the seaside cedars at night.

This is what my life comes down to, she thought. This is history: wetness, warmth, light . . . spent. . . . She was losing consciousness.

Someone was shouting her name from very far away. Her head rested under Severus’s chin. Through eyelashes soaked with his blood, the scene was red fading to black.

 

 


	33. The Cave Ridge

Snow was falling among the hushed pines near Sirius’s cave.

The ground of the forest gave way to open space. He had arrived at the cliff edge.

Harry opened the Elder Wand dossier to the page that had been marked, and reread it carefully: _Disposal of the Elder Wand can only be done by its master, who must also possess the dossier. The Wand may not be successfully destroyed otherwise. Place the bulk of the file under the bearer’s left foot. The bearer shall hold the Elder Wand upright in the non-dominant hand, by the base. With the bearer’s primary wand and dominant hand, utter the following incantation over the Elder Wand, taking care that no other living person is within a radius of twelve feet. . . ._

The Wand, broken and flaming, sifted down, down, down in the dry cold air. Harry watched the glowing fragments of wood fall, shimmering to dry ash, sprinkling the valley below.


	34. Epilogue

_Brittany_

 

Le Presbytere 22740 Lezardrieux, France

23 June

Dear Harry,

Thanks for writing! Your note meant a great deal to us. We are enjoying the easygoing seaside pace. Severus is fit; he is looking so well with actually a hint of tan, if you can believe it! He can walk now, with a cane, and every indication is he will fully recover the paralysis in his leg. My right eye is rebounding, slowly. I can see partially now with it, and so my sight is mostly whole. Really, a small price to pay. And a pittance, compared to the dear payment made by Remus and Mad-Eye. I hope Luna and Neville are well.

You are all welcome for a visit this summer. ‘Le Rectory’ offers plenty of space for guests. But I suppose you’ll be holding down the Grim Old Fort during July? Tonks says she will be glad to help you get ready for Pre-Auror track next school year.

Take care of yourself! All our love,

Clarissa (and Severus)

 

 

12 Grimmauld Place, London N1

29 June

Dear Clarissa,

Sorry it has taken so long to get you a decent letter. Thank you for being so attentive the past months. Some days I hate the universe; most days, I function okay. All normal, I am assured by my counselor.

Congratulations, darlings. It figures you would go off and got married like that without fanfare. Give a kiss to the groom from me!  

In your last letter, which I have right here, you waxed philosophical about Godric’s Hollow and the Prophecy’s role in what unfolded. The Prophecy proved amazingly accurate.  The way you and Harry worked together to kill Voldemort had been hinted at strongly as a Black/ Harry alliance, and you were brilliant. Snape’s role was foretold as the single son Keeper of Secrets. But the thing that saved you was not foretold, dear cousin. Our last night together, Remus said he believed the Elder Wand could not kill its own Mistress. I tend to agree, seeing how things played out. Just after Remus was gone, I thought you and Severus were both dead, too. We all did. I’m not sure anyone ever told you, but Hagrid carried you all the way back, through the portkey, and all the way up that hill to Hogwarts, at a running pace. I’ll never forget it. And it took Harry, Ron and Neville to get Severus to the hospital wing. You know the rest.

Part of me was not that surprised to learn that you were reconsidering the faith angle. You went through hell, darling, and came out alive. . . . The man you love, too. It’s lovely, what you wrote me about wanting to “revere the mystery” of life, and if that means a dusty old script actually had some ancient wisdom to offer you, so be it. I could use some of that old school devotion myself. Some days are bloody hard.

On a lighter note: I hear Minerva has decided to enjoy herself as an available SWF beachside retiree. I bet she’ll have a fabulous herb garden and about a hundred cats.

All my love to you and yours,

XOXO Tonks

P.S. I know you don’t really want to hear this, but I say “Well done” in ridding the world of Bellatrix Lestrange. I hope she was the last of the Black insanity genes.

P.P.S. Tell Severus to put on a sunscreen spell whilst he swims. Last I heard from you he was one shade above fish white. --Hahaha

 

 

From: Headmaster Severus Snape

Le Presbytere 22740 Lezardrieux, France

To: Mr. Argus Filch, Caretaker

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland

15 July

1\. A reminder: Please prune back the clementine around the boathouse.

2\. Be sure the fence around the Whomping Willow is on track for completion before the arrival of students. Refer to the specifications I left regarding the fence’s height and distance from the tree. Utilize Dimmesdale’s Garden Supply (we have an open account) in Hogsmeade for any additional materials you need to finish the project.

3\. The historic plaque for the Dossier display case in the library should have arrived this week from Borgin and Burkes. Please install.

4\. We will return to school on August 25th; so remind Dobby prior for the cleaning, if you would.

5\. Thank you kindly for your services. -- S.S.

 

 

Le Presbytere 22740 Lezardrieux, France

15 July

Dear Hagrid,

Clarissa and I are well and she sends her love. Hope you are enjoying the Romanian forestry experience.

We are gratified that you are planning to continue to teach Care of Magical Creatures this year. Would you also consider supervising Luna Lovegood as your Laboratory Assistant? She plans to become a fellow Magizoologist, as you may know. You would make an excellent advisor, and she a great help to you.

Thank you for your continued dedicated service. My family and I owe you so much.

Yours,

Severus Snape

 

 

12 Grimmauld Place, London N1

19 July

Dear Clarissa and Severus,

I am enjoying the Grim Old Fort as you called it. Thanks for the accommodations! Excellent for catching up with readings and exploring the old town. Luna visits me here some. Her arm has healed well, and she manages to do just about everything she did before, without fuss. I have never felt more sure of anything as this bit of news: I am in love with her! Hermione and Ron are in an “off” period, but knowing those two, they’ll be back together again by mid-summer. Ginny is well, and she continues to be quite the social butterfly. Same goes for Neville! His hearing may never return, but it hasn’t fazed him in the slightest.

Tonks is a fantastic mentor to me when she is here. I feel excited to tackle my last year before I start Auror studies proper.

I have been meaning to write to you for a long time to say thanks for everything you both have done for me. After my parents, and their sacrifice, you are the people who have made me the man I am now. You have shown me that true love is indeed a partnership. You showed me the way to fight Voldemort. In the end, it wasn’t superior wand skills (nor Clarissa’s skill with a Muggle Weapon!! which was tops) that defeated him. It was love.

The moment Clarissa and I killed Voldemort, his body crumpled like a house of cards. And that’s all he was: evil taking possession of a shell.

WE are not merely spirits inhabiting shells. . . . We live with these glorious physical bodies that do marvellous things: feel, and compete, and fight, and love. Voldemort could never understand that. Clarissa, you always told me that no one is a single story. Well, Tom Riddle may have been more than one story. But NOT Voldemort; he had only one dimension, and it’s why he lost.

Take care of each other. Enjoy the seaside. See you in August!

All my love, and eternal thanks!

Harry

 

 

Le Presbytere 22740 Lezardrieux, France

27 July

Dear Harry,

Please accept our warmest greetings ahead of your big day. Have a wonderful celebration! Reflect on the rich life you have, and how loved you are.

A gift from us will be arriving from Borgin and Burkes. Happy Birthday!

Our love,

Clarissa (and Severus, who is out collecting mussels in the inlet! his new hobby)

 

 

130 New Cavendish Street, London W1

2 August

Dear Headmaster Snape,

Wow, Headmaster, eh? Congratulations. And you are married to Cousin Clarissa! I am genuinely happy for you both.

You are no doubt surprised to be hearing from me. But I wanted to thank you for all you did for me back at Hogwarts. I was definitely your problem child, wasn’t I? I am sorry for the trouble I caused. If it hadn’t been for you, and also Clarissa, I would surely be dead. In some ways you were more of a father to me than Lucius has been. You really looked out for me. I have to wonder sometimes why you thought I was worth the effort? But I am grateful, and I’m doing rather well for myself here in London.

I’m training in haberdashery. Twilfitt and Tatting’s are opening a new store by Regent’s Park and they want me to run the place. Narcissa is working some afternoons at Madame Primpernelle’s and enjoys it. Being a little busier rather suits her. Father has found a decent niche at Gringott’s, advising the security system. I worry about his health, though, as his drinking habit has gotten to be something of a problem.

We are no longer accepted by the Death Eaters who survived the war--but really, not a pleasant group of people to be around. I do miss the comforts of the Manor, though that life seems forever ago.

Thank you, again, sir, for what you did for me.

Always in your debt,

Draco Malfoy

 

 

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland

September 23

Dear Tonks,

We loved seeing you at 'Le Rectory' last month--but it was far too brief a visit. You looked so well, darling! Do come stay with us soon in 'Le Suite.'

I want to add to the Prophecy discussion that I have always favoured reverence of life’s mysteries; however, most all of what happened at Godric’s Hollow can be explained rationally. Anti-venom, preparation, and strategy are what killed Voldemort and saved the rest of us, not mysticism or faith. But I will continue to revere the mystery that we are here at all, as that practice keeps me humble and happy.

One of the mysteries is love. You, dearest cousin, will love again.

Our love is a work in progress, like our lives at large. I wasn’t ready to be open to Severus in Cokeworth. I had much to work out. Even now, I’m sure Severus has not seen all of me, nor I all of him.

A complete sharing of any two individuals is impossible, since the ground is constantly shifting of who we are, even to ourselves. And we want to keep something back, naturally. The Clarissa he loves is mostly me . . . but is in some part the Clarissa he wants me to be. The same goes for the Severus that I love: he’s partly a man I dream up, lying beside me every night, protective and vulnerable, strong and weak, funny and sad, perfect and strange. We dream each other, just as we dream ourselves. So how can we totally share who we are with another?

Severus continues to grow; he is able to communicate more and more of himself to me. He lies next to me now, dreaming. In my dreams we are forever waltzing, or walking along that northern cedar grove, and I am forever protected. Because love is the ultimate talisman against evil. We know it; you know it. And we are lucky.

Always,

Clarissa

 

 


End file.
